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THE  HAPPY  IRISH 
HAROLD  BEGBIE 


Fhoto  Lafayette 


t^J  ne   ^aciu 


'"    THE  HAPPY  IRISH 


BY 


HAROLD  BEGBIE 

AUTHOR   OP 

"THB   CHALLBNGB,"   "THB   CAGB," 

'THB   DAT   THAT  CHANGBD  TBB  WORLD,"  BTC,  BTC. 


THERE  DWELLS  SWEET  LOVE,  AND  CONSTANT  CHASTITY, 
UNSPOTTED   FAITH,  AND  COMELY  WOMANHOOD, 
REGARD   OF  HONOUR,  AND   MILD   MODESTY. 

Spensbr. 


•OSTON  COLLEGE  LIBRART 

CBBSTKUT  BILL,  MAm, 

HODDER   AND    STOUGHTON 

NEW  YORK 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


:3::)A17T 


TO  MY  FRIEND 

ROBERT   DONALD 

A    POLITICIAN    WITHOUT    BITTERNESS 

A  JOURNALIST  WITHOUT  MALICE 

A  MAN  WITHOUT  ENEMIES 


1929 


I  AM  indebted  to  the  Editor  of  the  Daily 
Chronicle,  at  whose  suggestion  I  went  to 
Ireland,  for  his  kind  permission  to  incorpo- 
rate into  this  book  certain  chapters  or  parts 
of  chapters  which  appeared  as  articles  in 
his  newspaper.  This  book  appeared  in 
England  under  the  title  of  THE  LADY 
NEXT  DOOR— for  the  American  edition 
I  have  chosen  the  title  THE  HAPPY 
IRISH. 


FOREWORD 

AS  if  a  guiding  Providence  had  so  ordered  it, 
the  indestructible  soul  of  Ireland  emerges 
from  the  smoke  and  ruin  of  an  upheaval  in  the 
labour  world  which  has  shaken  England  to  her  very 
foundations. 

It  is  a  chmax,  a  coincidence,  luminous  with 
meaning  for  mankind. 

Ireland  enters  upon  the  strewn  and  trembhng 
stage  of  British  poUtics  with  a  significance,  not  only 
for  England,  not  only  for  the  British  Empire,  but 
for  all  the  foremost  nations  of  the  earth  now  re- 
garding each  other  from  the  outposts  of  civiUzation, 
from  the  fortified  and  haunted  frontiers  of  progress, 
with  a  dolorous  apprehension. 

She  does  not  arraign  the  ambitions  of  these 
civiHzed  nations — many  of  whom  learned  the 
alphabet  of  their  first  pure  culture  from  her  own 
heroic  sons — but  she  asks  to  disentangle  herself 
from  the  confusions  of  an  industriaHsm,  the  violence 
of  a  materiaHsm,  and  the  brutaHzing  ugHness  of  a 
false  civiUzation,  into  which  she  has  been  dragged, 
harshly  and  tyrannously  dragged,  against  her 
judgment  and  her  wiU. 

7 


8  FOREWORD 

In  making  this  claim  for  liberty,  Ireland  must 
surely  dispose  the  conscience  of  England  to  reflect 
upon  the  character  of  EngUsh  civilization,  the  course 
and  purpose  of  English  progress.  To  the  troubled 
nations  of  the  earth,  but  in  particular  to  England, 
Ireland  now  puts  the  question  which  her  missionaries 
asked  of  heathen  Europe  in  the  sixth  century,  What 
shall  it  profit  a  man  if  he  gain  the  whole  world,  and 
lose  his  soul  alive  ? 

It  is  a  question  of  arithmetic.  England,  long 
accustomed  to  the  logic  of  the  ledger,  long  versed 
in  the  grammar  of  Profit  and  Loss,  should  be  able 
to  give  an  intelligent  answer. 

What  shall  it  profit  a  nation  if  it  become  the 
clearing-house  of  the  whole  world,  and  miss  the  way 
to  peace  ?  What  shall  it  profit  a  democracy  if  it 
gain  the  whole  Wages  of  Mammon,  and  lose  the 
Joy  of  Life  ? 

Are  we  not  at  least  incHned  to  forget,  both  politi- 
cally and  individually,  that  nothing  which  belongs 
to  peace,  nothing  which  tells  "in  making  up  the 
main  account "  can  be  bought  with  money  ? 


CONTENTS 

PAOB 

Foreword  ........        7 

Preface 11 

CHAPTER  I 
By  Way  of  Introduction         ....      19 

CHAPTER  n 
The  Bishop's  Dream 41 

CHAPTER  III 
The  Life  of  a  Town 60 

CHAPTER  IV 
Testimonies       .......      84 

CHAPTER  V 
A  Quaker's  Parlour 105 

CHAPTER  VI 
Fenian,  Lawyer,  and  Earl       .        .        .        .118 

CHAPTER  VII 

MONUMENTUM   AERE   PeRENNIUS  .  .  .      139 

CHAPTER  VIII 
Petty  Larcenies 150 

CHAPTER  IX 
A  Case  op  Persecution 161 

CHAPTER  X 
The  Fine  Flower 175 

9 


10  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  XI  PA„ 

Because  it  is  Always  Dublin        .        .        .    186 

CHAPTER  XII 
The  Dame 200 

CHAPTER  XIII 
A  Corner  op  Ulster 209 

CHAPTER  XIV 
Hannah 226 

CHAPTER  XV 
At  the  Gate  of  Democracy   ....    238 

CHAPTER  XVI 
Manufactured  Mortality       ....    248 

CHAPTER  XVII 
The  Orange  Capital 255 

CHAPTER  XVIII 
Babies 265 

CHAPTER  XIX 
Maids  of  the  Mill 274 

CHAPTER  XX 
Wealth 285 

CHAPTER  XXI 
The  Gospel  of  Mammon         ....    292 

CHAPTER  XXII 
Conclusions 304 

NOTE 
On  the  Sweating  of  Belfast         .        .        .    326 


PREFACE 

AN  honest  man,  going  to  Ireland  with  no  pre- 
judgments in  his  mind,  might  easily  return 
from  his  study  with  inspiration,  arguments,  cita- 
tions, and  economical  data  for  two  distinct  books. 
One  book  would  persuade  the  world  to  call  for 
Home  Rule.  The  other  book  would  convince  the 
world  to  maintain  the  Union.  I  can  conceive  of  a 
perfectly  just  and  righteous  man  writing  both  these 
books. 

A  Frenchman  once  said  of  a  certain  critic  that  this 
ingenious  gentleman  had  three  ways  of  making  an 
article  :  to  assert,  to  re-assert,  and  to  contradict  him- 
self. But  in  the  two  books  for  which  I  can  imagine 
a  single  writer  there  would  be  no  violence  of  con- 
tradiction, no  confession  of  conversion,  no  casuistry, 
shuffling,  explanatory  apologetics,  and  peevish 
vindications  of  a  changed  mind.  Each  work  would 
blow  into  the  air  the  steam  of  a  distinct  thesis, 
would  travel  if  on  parallel  then  on  separate  lines, 
and  not  side  by  side,  racing  to  left  and  right  of  the 
same  platform  at  a  single  terminus,  but  in  clean 
contrary  directions,  passing  each  other  only  for 

11 


12  PREFACE 

a  single  moment,  looking  all  the  way  for  different 
signals,  and  reaching  ultimately  the  other's  antipodes. 

And  neither  of  these  two  books — ^this  is  interest- 
ing and  full  of  encouragement  for  the  bored  reader 
of  political  speeches  and  factioneering  pamphlets — 
would  make  use  of  arguments  employed  by  the 
rival  protagonists  of  Irish  poUtics.  Both  books 
would  belong  to  humanity  rather  than  to  faction, 
and  the  two  covers  might  be  dyed  with  any  colour  in 
the  milliner's  window  save  orange  and  green. 

It  is  all  a  question  of  definition,  purpose,  and 
point  of  view.  What  is  life  ?  What  is  the  object 
of  existence  ?  What  is  the  conscious  direction  of 
your  own  spiritual  progress  ?  Until  one  has  come 
to  a  more  or  less  reasonable  conclusion  on  these 
matters,  it  is  idle  to  entertain  a  definite,  rigid,  and 
exclusive  opinion  on  the  subject  of  Ireland ;  and, 
since  the  scope  of  these  matters  is  so  wide  and  so 
uncertainly  mapped,  the  same  man,  in  different 
moods,  looking  at  the  identical  question  from  two 
distinct  points  of  view,  may  come  with  equal 
honesty  to  conclusions  at  variance  with  each  other, 
so  entirely  at  variance  that  they  are  not  really  in 
conflict.  "  Corot  disait  que  pour  saisir  Vdme  et  la 
beaute  d^un  pay  sage,  il  fallait  savoir  s^asseoir,^^ 

I  mean  this  :  that  a  man  perfectly  satisfied  with 
civiUzation,  convinced  that  social  evolution  is  pur- 
suing the  right  road,  and  persuaded  that  competi- 
tive commercialism  is  the  predestined  way  of  the 


PREFACE  13 

human  species,  would  come  to  an  opinion  about 
Ireland  different  from  the  conclusion  of  a  man  who 
suspected  civilization  and  felt  himself  inclined  to  call 
a  halt  to  the  progress  of  disorderly  materialism.  Or, 
the  very  same  man,  feeHng  at  one  moment  that  he 
could  do  nothing  to  arrest  the  movement  of  de- 
mocracy and  at  another  moment  inspired  to  beHeve 
that  the  only  hope  of  salvation  lay  in  a  violent 
antagonism  to  this  power,  would  come  honestly  and 
righteously  to  two  different  decisions. 

For  myself,  I  went  to  Ireland  with  the  leaning 
towards  Home  Rule  of  a  man  who  knows  the  Im- 
perial Parliament  to  be  congested  and  who  has 
the  loose  inherited  faith  of  the  average  modern  in 
the  usefulness  of  local  government.  Beginning  at 
the  south  I  worked  my  way  zigzag  through  the 
villages  and  httle  towns  of  rural  Ireland  till  I  came 
to  the  north,  and  I  arrived  in  the  north  with  no 
more  definite  idea  in  my  mind  than  this  conviction, 
that  the  Irish  people  are  charming,  delightful, 
virtuous,  and  sagacious.  The  industrial  north  filled 
me  with  depression.  I  can  think  of  few  sharper 
contrasts  in  the  world  than  to  go  from  some  beauti- 
ful village  on  the  coast  of  Donegal  straight  to  the 
squalor,  the  poverty,  the  desperate  ugliness  and 
the  deadening  depravity  of  Belfast.  This  was  my 
experience.  I  came  from  the  rugged  grandeur  of 
Port-na-blah,  from  the  society  and  gracious  hos- 
pitaUty  of  happy  peasants  and  kindly  fishermen, 


14  PREFACE 

into  the  mud  and  destitution,  into  the  noise  and 
vulgarity,  into  the  shabbiness  and  disquiet  of  Bel- 
fast. I  am  no  stranger  to  slums,  I  am  acquainted 
with  the  poverty  of  big  cities  in  many  countries 
both  East  and  West,  but  I  was  overwhelmed  by 
this  particular  contrast.  I  felt  in  Belfast  that 
industriaHsm  was  the  enemy  of  the  human  race. 
I  compared  the  beautiful  faces  and  the  noble 
manners  of  those  primitive  people  with  whom  I 
had  stayed  on  the  shores  of  Sheep  Haven  with  the 
hard  looks,  the  stunted  bodies,  the  anaemic  faces, 
and  the  rough  manners  of  these  thousands  of  human 
beings  crowding  the  streets  of  Belfast.  And  I  felt 
that  civilization  had  taken  a  wrong  turning,  that 
progress  was  hurrying  along  a  road  that  led  only 
to  destruction,  that  life  as  industriaHsm  had  made 
it  was  something  harsh  and  detestable,  something  for 
which  humanity  owed  no  laudamus  to  the  heavens. 
One  night  I  sat  in  my  hotel  at  Belfast  with  a 
singularly  enHghtened  member  of  the  working- 
class,  a  local  leader  of  the  SociaHst  party.  We  dis- 
cussed for  some  time  the  wages  paid  in  Belfast 
factories,  the  conditions  of  labour,  housing,  and 
the  Insurance  Act,  of  which  he  is  an  enthusiastic 
supporter.  Then  we  turned  to  the  general  question 
of  Socialism.  Towards  the  end  of  our  coUoquy 
I  said  to  him,  "  Are  you  quite  sure  that  you  will 
get  all  the  social  reforms  you  require  in  Belfast 
out  of  an  Irish  ParHament  ?  " 


PREFACE  15 

His  eyes  expressed  surprise,  he  regarded  me  for 
a  moment  with  astonishment,  then,  laughing  as 
one  who  sees  his  way  out  of  perplexit}^,  he  de- 
manded with  amusement,  "  You  don't  think  I'm 
a  Home  Ruler,  do  you  ?  " 

The  increduHty  of  his  tone  surprised  me,  for  it 
expressed  a  far  greater  contempt  of  Home  Rule 
than  ever  I  had  heard  on  the  lips  of  perfervid 
Orangemen. 

"  Are  you  not  ?  "  I  inquired. 

He  rephed,  with  decision :  "I  should  think 
not  !  No  ;  I'm  a  Unionist,  out  and  out.  England 
is  absolutely  essential  to  us.  An  Irish  Parhament 
would  be  entirely  Tory.  It  would  do  nothing  in  the 
direction  of  Socialism,  quite  the  reverse  ;  it  would 
be  the  most  Conservative  Government  in  the  world. 
But  we  can  screw  out  of  England  aU  we  want,  bit 
by  bit,  and  she  can  help  us  to  pay  the  bill  !  " 

Then  I  saw  an  argument  for  the  Union  which  the 
professional  agitators  of  the  Orange  Party  in  their 
devotion  to  rehgious  animosities  have  excluded  from 
their  oratory  ;  and  I  saw  also  an  argument  for 
Home  Rule  which  the  Liberals  of  England  in  their 
enthusiasm  for  social  reform  have  omitted  from 
their  dialectic.  Here  at  my  side  was  a  SociaHst, 
a  man  of  great  intelligence  devoted  to  the  better- 
ment of  working-class  existence,  a  man  for  whom 
Mr.  Lloyd  George  does  not  move  fast  enough,  and 
who   condemns   the   manual  labourer  for  trusting 


16  PREFACE 

to  his  trade  union  instead  of  using,  with  an  absolute 
force  and  with  an  uncompromising  energy,  the 
pohtical  instrument — and  he  was  a  Unionist  ! 

Penetrate  to  the  soul  of  poUtical  contention,  and 
there  is  always  perplexity.  The  Tory  defends  the 
Indian  Government,  the  SociaHst  attacks  it ;  and 
yet  the  Indian  Government  owns  the  railways  and 
the  land  of  India,  and  uses  pubHc  funds  for  the 
purpose  of  developing  national  trade.  What  the 
Socialist  wants  in  England  he  attacks  in  India,  and 
what  the  Tory  condemns  in  England  he  passionately 
defends  in  India.  Lord  Curzon  is  a  Tory  in  England, 
a  SociaHst  in  India  ;  and  Mr.  Keir  Hardie  is  a 
Socialist  in  England,  a  Tory  in  India.  "  The  world's 
heroes  have  room  for  all  positive  quaMties,  even 
those  which  are  disreputable,  in  the  capacious  theatre 
of  their  dispositions." 

But  the  perplexity  is  even  greater  in  the  case  of 
Ireland.  EngHsh  Conservatives  and  Ulster  SociaHsts 
are  of  one  mind  about  the  Union  ;  EngHsh  SociaHsts 
and  Irish  Conservatives  are  of  one  mind  about  Home 
Rule.  The  EngHsh  Conservative  condemns  Home 
Rule,  and  the  Irish  Conservative  clamours  for  it. 
The  Irish  Radical  fights  for  the  Union,  and  the 
EngHsh  Radical  condemns  it.  Sir  Edward  Carson 
commands  the  regiments  of  Irish  SociaHsm  in 
the  army  of  British  Conservatism,  and  Mr.  John 
Redmond  leads  in  the  army  of  Irish  Conservatism 
the  regiments  of  EngHsh  Socialism. 


PREFACE  17 

Such  chaos  and  confusion  may  seem  incredible, 
but  it  is  true  ;  and,  indeed,  it  is  this  very  confusion 
which  puts  into  a  man's  hand  the  veritable  thread 
which  he  must  foUow  if  he  would  emerge  into  the 
light  and  sanity  of  open  air  from  the  labyrinth  of 
Irish  .pontics. 

There  are  two  Irelands — ^not  as  they  are  known 
to  EngHsh  people  as  CathoHc  and  Protestant  Ire- 
land, as  Home  Rule  and  Unionist  Ireland,  but 
Conservative  Ireland  and  Democratic  Ireland.  Con- 
servative Ireland  regards  Home  Rule  as  the  one 
way  of  escape  from  the  industrial  anarchy,  the 
commercial  brutaUty,  the  ultimate  bankruptcy,  which 
she  holds  must  be  the  inevitable  fate  of  union  with 
England  ;  and  Democratic  Ireland,  fiUed  with  the 
Futurist's  enthusiasm  for  machinery  and  modernity, 
and  utterly  reckless  of  agriculture,  regards  the 
Union  as  her  one  means  of  marching  abreast  with 
the  civiHzed  nations  to  the  goal  of  SociaHsm. 

It  requires  profound  thinking  and  a  prudent 
judgment  to  decide  which  of  these  Irelands  has 
the  truer  vision.  I  am  persuaded,  for  instance,  that 
a  mere  pressure  of  atmosphere,  a  httle  change  in 
the  weather,  even  a  sHght  difference  in  the  digestive 
organs,  might  turn  the  judgment  of  so  nice  a 
philosopher  as  Mr.  Arthur  Balfour  from  one  decision 
to  the  other.  Are  we  not  all  the  victims  of  our 
moods,  and  do  not  our  moods  largely  control  for  us 
the  judgments  of  our  intellects  ?     Does  not  life 


18  PREFACE 

fluctuate  for  all  of  us,  as  once  for  Bishop  Blougram, 
between  faith  diversified  by  doubt  and  doubt  diver- 
sified by  faith  ?  But  let  a  man  settle  once  and  for 
all  his  definitions  of  life,  and  hold  to  them,  if  he  can, 
throughout  his  reflections  on  Ireland,  and  then  he 
may  possibly  reach  a  conclusion  to  which  he  can 
give  the  energy  of  his  voice  and  the  solemn  afl&rma- 
tion  of  his  vote. 


CHAPTER  I 
BY   WAY   OF   INTRODUCTION 


rflO  fall  in  with  popular  notions  is  the  wisdom 
-■-  of  most  transitory  writing.  One  thing  the 
self-respecting  reader  resents  with  energy,  and 
that  is  disturbance  of  his  prejudices,  upheaval  in 
his  preconceptions. 

Thus  it  is  that  a  distinguished  writer  recently 
began  a  book  on  Paris  with  the  charming  avowal 
that  no  sooner  had  he  detrained  than  he  felt  a 
sparkling  tide  of  festive  gaiety  surge  up  against 
him  from  the  pavements  of  Paris  and  bear  him 
smihng  and  radiant  away  into  the  sunhght  of  that 
briUiant  city's  incomparable  joy.  The  driver  of 
his  cab,  he  tells  us,  sang  all  the  way  from  the 
station  to  the  hotel.  Whether  the  distinguished 
author,  infected  by  this  gaiety,  pushed  his  hat  to 
the  back  of  his  head  and  joined  in  the  chorus,  we 
are  not  informed  ;  nor  is  it  stated  that  the  hall 
porter  executed  a  pas  seul  at  his  entrance  into  the 
hotel,  that  the  Hft  boys  broke  into  song,  and  that 
the  clerks  at  the  office  pledged  him  in  champagne. 

19 


20  BY  WAY   OF  INTRODUCTION 

But  enough  was  said,  and  with  the  first  stroke  of 
the  pen,  to  set  the  self-respecting  reader  entirely 
at  his  ease,  and  we  may  fancy  how  he  straightway 
settled  himself  down  in  his  arm-chair,  stretched 
his  legs,  pulled  complacently  at  his  pipe,  and  gave 
himself  completely  into  the  safe-keeping  of  this 
joUy  and  confirmatory  author. 

But  consider  the  state  of  that  reader's  feehngs  if 
the  book  had  opened  with  a  reference  to  the  mental 
fatigue  of  streets  too  long  and  rigid,  to  the  lugu- 
brious melancholy  of  fat  cab-drivers,  to  the  Hstless, 
fagged,  weary,  and  bored  expression  of  pale-faced, 
goggle-eyed  gentlemen  gathered  round  tin  tables 
at  dusty  boulevard  restaurants,  like  mourners  at  a 
wake,  to  the  blase  and  cynical  aspect  of  a  music- 
hall  audience,  to  the  poverty  and  wretchedness  of 
Parisian  miserables,  to  the  dullness  and  torpor  of 
overdressed  children  in  the  Bois — ^in  fact,  to  that 
total  sensation  of  ennui  and  exhaustion  which 
strikes  the  mind  of  many  travellers  in  their  pere- 
grinations of  the  French  capital.  No ;  such  a 
beginning  would  be  fatal  to  a  cheerful  progress. 
Paris,  by  the  common  consent  of  universal  ignor- 
ance, is  the  gayest  city  in  the  world.  .  .  . 

Now,  the  popular  notion  of  Ireland  is  the  reverse 
of  all  this.  Ireland  is  a  distressful  country,  a 
savage  and  dreary  country  populated,  except  in  a 
briUiant  north,  by  assassins  and  dynamitards  who 
sleep  with  a  pig  in  their  beds,  and  spend  the  day 


BY  WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION  21 

either  in  tearing  holes  in  their  own  coats,  or  tread- 
ing on  the  tails  of  somebody  else's  coat.  Of  late  a 
body  of  writers  has  arisen  with  the  gospel  of  another 
Ireland,  but  it  is  stiU  a  melancholy  Ireland.  Ac- 
cording to  these  mystical  authors  there  is  some- 
thing sad  and  tragic  in  the  very  atmosphere  of 
Ireland,  a  spirit  of  wistful  reverie  broods  upon 
Irish  Ufe  with  the  pensive  sorrow  of  an  immemorial 
grief.  In  the  tender  manner  of  Pierre  Loti,  and 
with  the  elegant  gestures  of  Rossetti,  they  breathe 
into  our  susceptible  souls  the  feeUng  that  Ireland 
is  gloomed  with  some  unearthly  woe  and  tortured 
by  an  everlasting  spiritual  unrest.  To  deny  the 
gospel  of  these  mystics,  to  say  that  potatoes  flourish 
in  the  soil  and  httle  boys  go  sHding  on  the  frozen 
ponds,  is  to  confess  oneself  duU  of  soul  and  lacking 
in  refinement  of  spirit. 

And,  again,  there  is  the  popular  notion  that  Irish 
Hfe  is  consumed  in  the  fiery  furnace  of  poHtical 
controversy.  It  was  bad  enough,  we  are  told, 
when  the  CathoHcs  warred  against  the  Protestants, 
and  when  the  Home  Rulers  took  arms  against  the 
Unionists  ;  but  now,  when  the  Home  Rule  camp 
is  the  scene  of  an  internecine  conflict  so  fierce  and 
implacable  that  no  man's  Hfe  is  safe  from  Portrush 
to  Skibbereen — the  country  has  become  unpardon- 
ably  tiresome. 

And  so  the  average  Englishman,  who  has  his  gar- 
den to  plant,  who  is  worrying  over  a  chess  problem, 


22  BY  WAY   OF   INTRODUCTION 

who  suffers  from  indigestion,  and  who  has  just 
received  a  troublesome  letter  from  his  aunt  in  the 
country,  puts  Ireland  out  of  his  head  and  wishes 
that  confounded  country,  if  not  ten  thousand 
leagues  under  the  sea,  at  least  three  thousand 
miles  away  from  English  shores. 

But  if  the  inquirer  can  manage  to  exist  for  a  few 
weeks  without  confirmation  of  his  prejudices,  and 
can  accustom  himself  for  the  same  period  to  the 
mental  disturbance  of  receiving  illumination,  he 
wiU  surely  find  that  a  journey  in  Ireland  is  as 
dehghtful  and  interesting  an  occupation  as  any- 
thing to  which  he  has  ever  addressed  his  affections 
and  intelligence.  He  will  be  refreshed  by  the  contra- 
dictions of  his  prejudices,  and  exhilarated  by  the 
enHghtenment  of  his  ignorance.  In  a  word,  he  will 
find  that  there  is  nothing  in  life  half  so  beguiHng 
and  half  so  amusing  as  sober  truth.  The  truth 
about  Ireland — the  social,  pohtical  and  rehgious 
truth — ^is  perhaps  the  most  interesting  romance  in 
the  world. 

Therefore,  if  I  cannot  secure  the  confidence  of 
my  reader  by  beginning  with  the  customary  sigh, 
at  least  let  me  stimulate  his  curiosity  by  this  hint 
of  something  strange  and  amusing.  He  will  find 
himself,  if  he  be  so  good  as  to  foUow  me,  in  the 
stimulating  and  agreeable  company  of  noble  land- 
lords, sitting  in  the  cabins  of  Donegal  peasants 
over  a  peat  fire  on  the  stone  hearth,  listening  to 


BY  WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION  23 

the  thunders  of  a  Fenian,  supping  and  sitting  up 
to  aU  hours  in  the  night  with  a  CathoHc  bishop, 
chatting  to  a  sharp  Quaker,  standing  in  a  snow 
bhzzard  on  the  rugged  cHffs  that  front  the  Atlantic, 
wandering  in  glens  as  beautiful  as  fairyland,  talk- 
ing to  lovely  maidens  who  blush  and  hang  the  head 
before  a  stranger,  hearing  the  tales  of  old  men  who 
remember  the  great  famine,  visiting  a  hospital, 
examining  a  school,  penetrating  slums,  morahzing 
in  a  monastery,  and  discussing  without  fear  of  fire- 
arms or  shillelaghs  some  of  the  most  deHcate 
problems  which  agitate  the  Hibernian  bosom. 
And  as  he  makes  the  journey,  he  will  find,  if  my 
conceit  does  not  mislead  me,  that  the  tangle  of 
Irish  pohtics  is  a  very  simple  and  human  matter, 
that  the  great  rock  of  difficulty,  known  as  the  Irish 
question,  is  but  a  pleasant  hill  for  a  morning's 
walk,  and  that  the  chief  thing  to  become  acquainted 
with  in  Ireland  is  the  Irish  heart,  which  is  as  kindly 
and  gracious  and  patient  a  centre  of  human  affec- 
tions as  the  heart  of  the  woman  he  loves  best  in  the 
world. 

"  No  man,"  said  ParneU,  and  created  a  false  im- 
pression, "  has  a  right  to  fix  the  boundary  of  the 
march  of  a  nation."  One  does  not  hear  in  Ireland 
the  tramp  of  a  multitude  marching  through  the 
night,  does  not  see  stern  and  exalted  faces  hfted  to 
the  dawn,  does  not  discern  the  moving  of  dark 
banners  in  the  gloom  of  the  upper  air.    Rather  one 


24  BY  WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION 

beholds  a  young  and  capable  matron  seated  at  her 
fireside,  who  raises  her  grey  eyes  to  the  visitor,  and 
says  without  apology,  but  with  a  whimsical  and 
ingratiating  play  of  laughter  at  her  Hps,  "  I  wish  to 
do  my  own  housekeeping  ;  I  think  I  can  do  it  in  a 
better  way,  and  more  cheaply,  than  other  people 
can  do  it  for  me.  I  have  no  desire  to  fall  out  with 
my  neighbours,  no  inclination  to  remember  old 
scores  against  them.  I  simply  want  to  be  left  alone 
to  attend  to  my  own  business  and  bring  up  my  own 
family  in  my  own  way." 

The  old  gentleman  next  door  may  be  alarmed  by 
this  ambition,  but  the  lady  has  reaUy  no  more  evil 
intent  against  his  prosperity  than  to  sell  him  the 
surplus  of  her  butter  and  eggs. 


n 

THE  OFFENCES  OF  OUR  FOREFATHERS 

Before  we  set  out  to  visit  our  neighbour,  it  is 
well  to  have  in  mind  some  knowledge  of  the  temper 
which  characterized  our  past  relations,  if  only  to 
avoid  a  faux  pas. 

To  begin  with,  then,  it  is  a  fact  acknowledged  by 
every  historian,  high  and  low,  that  England,  having 
set  herself  to  subdue  the  Irish,  without  success, 
screwed  herself  to  the  point  of  attempting  to  exter- 


BY   WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION  25 

minate  these  irrepressible  neighbours.  This  is  a 
most  important  matter  to  keep  in  mind.  All  the 
pother  of  these  present  days  has  flowed  from 
England's  blundered  poHcy  of  extermination.  Our 
forefathers  endeavoured  to  wipe  the  Irish  slate  clean 
of  Irishmen.  They  did  not  succeed.  The  remnant 
which  survived  the  bloody  sponge  refused  to  kiss 
the  hand  which  had  clenched  itself  to  erase  them. 

The  poet  Spenser  has  described  one  after-effect 
of  this  pohcy  :  "  Out  of  every  corner  of  the  woods 
and  glens,  they  came  creeping  forth  upon  their 
hands,  for  their  legs  could  not  bear  them  ;  they 
looked  like  anatomies  of  death ;  they  spake  like 
ghosts  crying  out  of  their  graves  ;  they  did  eat  of 
the  dead  carrions,  happy  were  they  if  they  could 
find  them,  yea,  and  one  another  soon  after,  inso- 
much as  the  very  carcases  they  spared  not  to  scrape 
out  of  their  graves.  ...  In  short  space  there  were 
none  almost  left,  and  a  most  populous  and  plentiful 
country  suddenly  made  void  of  man  or  beast." 

Sir  Arthur  Chichester  saw  some  children  gnaw- 
ing at  the  flesh  of  their  starved  mother.  Lecky 
tells  how  old  women  Hghted  fires  to  attract  children, 
whom  they  slew  and  devoured.  The  English 
soldiery  put  to  the  sword  "  bhnd  and  feeble  men, 
women,  boys,  and  girls,  rich  persons,  idiots,  and 
old  people."  M.  Paul  Dubois  narrates  :  "In  the 
Desmond  country,  when  all  resistance  was  at  an 
end,  the  soldiers  forced  the  people  into  old  barns, 


26  BY  WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION 

which  they  then  set  on  fire,  putting  to  the  sword 
any  who  sought  to  escape  ;  .  .  .  soldiers  were  seen 
to  catch  up  children  on  the  points  of  their  swords, 
making  them  squirm  in  the  air  in  their  death  agony  ; 
.  .  .  women  were  found  hanged  from  trees,  with 
the  children  at  their  bosoms  strangled  in  the  hair 
of  their  mothers." 

Not  only  did  the  EngKsh  destroy  crops  and  drive 
cattle  into  their  own  camps  that  the  Irish  might  be 
starved,  not  only  this,  but  they  dehberately  and 
with  cunning  purpose  made  a  great  slaughter  of 
infants.  The  terrible  phrase,  almost  the  most 
terrible  phrase  in  human  records,  "  Nits  will  be 
lice,"  was  the  laughing,  murderous,  and  devihsh 
justification  for  this  slaughter  of  babes.  The  steel 
of  England's  might  ran  red  with  the  blood  of  Irish 
infancy.  Lips  that  had  not  learned  to  speak  a 
human  word,  lips  that  knew  nothing  more  than  to 
hang  contented  at  the  circle  of  the  mother's  breast, 
were  twitched  with  agony,  uttered  screams  of 
desperate  pain,  and  grew  purple  in  the  wrench  of 
violent  death.  Little  feet  that  had  but  lately  got 
the  trick  of  balance  ran,  stumbled,  and  fell  before 
the  smoking  swords  of  most  inhuman  murderers. 
Little  hands  that  had  but  lately  learned  to  fold 
themselves  in  prayer  were  raised  in  clamorous 
appeal  for  mercy  to  men  who  smote  them  down, 
and  set  their  heels  upon  those  stricken  faces.  "  Nits 
wiU  be  lice,"  cried  these  slaughtering  devils,  and 


BY   WAY   OF   INTRODUCTION  27 

the  beautiful  flower  of  Irish  childhood  was  crushed 
into  the  bloody  ooze  of  a  land  that  was  Hke  hell. 

Most  men  who  have  abandoned  the  idea  of 
eternal  torment  reserve  some  special  place  of 
agony  and  torture  in  the  next  world  for  Philip  the 
Second  of  Spain,  the  Duke  of  Alva,  and  Cardinal 
GranveUe.  They  could  not  meet  those  souls  in 
heaven  without  murderous  thoughts  and  instincts 
only  fit  for  Gehenna.  But  the  atrocities  in  the  Low 
Countries,  those  atrocities  out  of  which  the  spirit 
of  WiUiam  the  Silent  rose  godlike  and  subhme, 
can  be  matched  step  by  step,  and  inch  by  inch  in 
the  records  of  England's  dealing  with  Ireland.  No 
just  Englishman  can  read  that  history  without  a 
shudder,  without  an  overwhelming  sense  of  shame, 
without  uttering  the  prayer,  "  Remember  not.  Lord, 
our  offences,  nor  the  offences  of  our  forefathers." 

On  the  evening  of  Dettingen,  George  the  Second 
exclaimed,  "  God  curse  the  laws  that  made  these 
men  my  enemies  !  "  And  M.  Paul  Dubois  pro- 
nounces true  judgment  when  he  says,  "  It  was 
England  herself,  it  was  the  EngHsh  in  Ireland,  that 
made  the  Irish  rebels."  Mr.  John  M.  Robertson 
has  justly  summarized  our  deaUngs  with  Ireland 
in  these  few  sentences  :  "  Seven  centuries  of  rapine 
and  violence.  Carelessness  alternating  with  ferocity. 
Not  a  gleam  of  humanity,  nor  of  poHtical  wisdom. 
Not  even  the  wisdom  of  the  peasant,  who  takes 
care  of  his  beast,  lest  it  perish." 


28  BY  WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION 

In  vain  did  England  plant  out  in  Ireland  people 
from  her  own  shires,  and  people  from  the  neigh- 
bour land  of  Scotland.  In  vain  to  these  ahens  did 
she  give  the  rich  pastures  of  Ireland,  and  forbid 
them  either  to  speak  Irish  or  to  marry  with  Irish 
women.  The  rightful  children  of  the  soil,  the  Httle 
remnant  that  had  escaped  extermination,  absorbed 
these  invaders  into  the  mysterious  spirit  of  Irish 
existence.  Depressed,  broken,  crushed,  degraded, 
and  impoverished,  the  faithful  remnant  did,  never- 
theless, in  some  most  marvellous  manner  conquer 
without  force  of  arms  these  foreign  masters,  and 
make  them  more  Irish  than  the  Irish.  They  clung 
to  one  thing,  these  aliens,  one  thing  which  marks 
their  children  to  this  present  day — an  arrogant 
conviction  of  superiority,  a  determination  to  main- 
tain a  social,  poHtical,  and  rehgious  ascendancy  ; 
but  in  aU  else  they  became  Irish,  as  different  from 
the  people  of  England  and  Scotland  as  the  people 
of  Glamorganshire  are  different  from  the  people  of 
Norfolk.  Spenser  exclaimed,  "  Lord,  how  quickly 
doth  that  country  alter  men's  natures  !  " 

To  a  rightful  appreciation  of  modern  Ireland, 
it  is  essential  that  the  Enghsh  mind  should  possess, 
at  least,  this  knowledge  of  the  past.  England's 
policy  was  first  to  subdue,  then  to  exterminate, 
afterwards  to  overwhelm  with  an  alien  population. 
For  seven  centuries  she  showed  to  Ireland  neither 
mercy  nor  wisdom,  neither  kindness  nor  inteUi- 


BY  WAY   OF   INTRODUCTION  29 

gence.  For  seven  centuries  she  was  tyrant,  op- 
pressor, and  panic-minded  coward.  Never  once 
did  she  employ  righteousness  and  peace,  justice 
and  conciHation.  And  it  was  not  until  famine  had 
driven  Ireland  to  transitory  crime,  and  transitory 
crime  had  driven  England  to  fear,  that  the  thought 
of  responsibihty,  the  idea  of  justice  and  reparation 
occurred  to  a  few  just  and  noble  EngHshmen. 

"  Your  oppressions,"  said  Lord  John  Russell, 
"  have  taught  the  Irish  to  hate,  your  concessions 
to  brave  you.  You  have  exhibited  to  them  how 
scanty  was  the  stream  of  your  bounty,  how  full  the 
tribute  of  your  fear." 

England's  whole  pohcy  towards  Ireland  may  be 
expressed  in  two  words  :  A  crime  and  a  blunder. 
This  is  a  judgment  with  which  Unionists  and  Home 
Rulers,  every  honest  man  in  every  nation  under 
the  sun,  cannot  help  but  concur.  A  crime  and  a 
blunder. 


m 

CROMWELLIAN   COMMERCE 

This  also  is  a  thing  to  bear  in  mind  : — 

When   England   had   beaten   the   poor   Irish   to 

their  knees,  had  laid  waste  that  lovely  land,  and 

planted  out  her  own  subsidized  people  in  every 

quarter  of  the  country,  one  thing  remained  vital 


30  BY   WAY   OF  INTRODUCTION 

and  unsubdued — the  indestructible  soul  of  the 
Irish  nation.  Practical  people  in  England  guffaw 
at  this  indestructible  soul ;  gentlemen  with  money 
in  the  stocks,  and  a  considerable  stake  in  the 
country,  ridicule  any  reference  to  the  matter  as  a 
piece  of  stupid  sentimentaHsm.  Nationahty,  they 
say,  butters  no  parsnips.  An  indestructible  soul  is 
not  so  useful  as  a  balance  at  the  bank.  But  these 
practical  people  are  more  versed  in  affairs  of  the 
Money  Market  than  in  the  steadfast  lessons  of 
history. 

A  sense  of  Nationality  is  the  Hfe-blood  of  a  people. 
It  is  the  quickening  power  which  animates  their 
action,  enlarges  their  vision,  and  directs  their 
hopes.  And  in  Ireland,  crushed  and  broken  Ire- 
land, even  in  her  darkest  hour,  this  conviction  of 
an  indestructible  soul,  this  sense  of  sacred  and 
affectionate  Nationahty,  has  kept  aHve  aU  that  is 
noble,  all  that  is  glorious,  aU  that  is  beautiful  and 
pure  in  Irish  character.  Nor  was  this  passion  of 
the  spirit  wasted  in  the  region  of  sentiment  or  con^ 
fined  to  the  tubs  and  barrels  of  pohtical  agitation. 
It  became  a  force  in  commerce.  The  practical 
people  who  now  scoff  at  the  idea  of  Irish 
Nationahty  cannot  know  that  the  inspiration  of 
Nationahty  drove  the  suffering  Irish  from  their 
knees,  hfted  them  from  the  morass  of  destruction, 
and  set  them  to  the  task  of  forging  a  destiny.  Ire- 
land  became   rich   and   prosperous.     If   she   had 


BY  WAY  OF  INTRODUCTION  31 

stopped  at  that — if  the  spirit  of  Irish  Nationality 
had  arrested  its  pressure  at  that  point — all  might 
now  be  well  with  her.  But  rich,  prosperous  and 
rejoicing,  this  happy  people  set  no  boundary  to 
their  ambition.  They  became  in  their  impious 
progress  the  rivals  of  England.  And  England — 
not  with  the  sword,  but  with  those  instruments 
which  Tariff  Reformers  would  again  place  in  her 
cleansed  hands — once  more  reduced  Ireland  to 
beggary  and  ruin. 

"  One  by  one,"  said  Lord  Dufferin,  "  each  of  our 
nascent  industries  was  either  strangled  in  its  birth, 
or  handed  over,  gagged  and  bound,  to  the  jealous 
custody  of  the  rival  interests  of  England,  until  at 
last  every  fountain  of  wealth  was  hermetically 
sealed,  and  even  the  traditions  of  commercial 
enterprise  have  perished  through  desuetude." 
Irish  ships,  laden  with  beef,  mutton,  tallow,  hides, 
leather,  and  wool,  sailed  every  week  to  Dunkirk, 
Ostend,  Naples,  La  Rochelle,  and  the  West  Indies, 
tiU  England  began  to  quake  for  her  trade.  And 
then  came  Navigation  Acts  which  broke  this  grow- 
ing trade  upon  the  sea,  and  reduced  Ireland  to 
direst  want.  "  The  conveniency,"  cried  Swift,  "  of 
ports  and  harbours  which  Nature  bestowed  so 
liberally  upon  this  kingdom,  is  of  no  more  use  to 
us  than  to  a  man  shut  up  in  a  dungeon."  Ireland 
turned  her  attention  to  wool.  "  A  real  industrial 
enthusiasm,"  says  Lecky,  "  had  arisen  in  the  nation. 


32  BY  WAY  OF   INTRODUCTION 

Great  numbers  of  English,  Scotch  and  even  foreign 
manufacturers  came  over.  Many  thousands  of 
men  were  employed  in  the  trade,  and  aU  the  signs 
of  a  great  rising  industry  were  visible."  But 
frightened  England  stepped  in  and  forbade  the 
exportation.  Commerce  produced  its  Cromwell, 
the  Bible  in  one  hand,  a  tariff  in  the  other.  "  So 
ended,"  says  Lecky,  "  the  fairest  promise  Ireland 
had  ever  known  of  becoming  a  prosperous  and 
happy  country." 

In  1798  Lord  Clare  made  this  statement  :  "  There 
is  not  a  nation  on  the  face  of  the  habitable  globe 
which  has  advanced  in  cultivation,  in  manufactures, 
with  the  same  rapidity  in  the  same  period  as  Ire- 
land." In  the  same  year  the  bankers  of  Dubhn 
passed  the  resolution  "  that  since  the  renunciation 
of  the  power  of  Great  Britain  in  1782  to  legislate 
for  Ireland,  the  commerce  and  prosperity  of  this 
kingdom  have  eminently  increased."  "  From  the 
concession  of  free  trade  in  1779,"  says  Lecky,  "  to 
the  RebeUion  of  1798,  the  national  progress  of 
Ireland  was  rapid  and  uninterrupted.  In  ten  years 
from  1782  the  exports  more  than  trebled." 

Then  England  saw  that  to  conquer  Ireland  was 
but  a  small  thing  in  comparison  with  destrojdng 
her  sense  of  Nationality.  And  to  destroy  her 
NationaHty  she  brought  about  the  chief  scandal 
and  the  blackest  crime  of  her  legislative  history — 
the  Act  of  Union.     Gentlemen  in  Ulster  profess 


Photo.  Mason,  Dublin. 

BY  THE   WAYSIDE. 


i'lioto.  Mason,  l>ul)li 


A    WATIOUFALL 


BY   WAY    OF    INTRODUCTION  33 

loyalty  to  this  Act  of  Union,  they  threatened  to 
kick  Queen  Victoria's  crown  into  the  Boyne  if  it 
were  repealed,  to  fight  for  it  they  have  advertised 
for  rifles  in  German  newspapers,  to  uphold  it  Lord 
Londonderry  has  lavishly  devoted  his  intellect  and 
wealth,  and  Sir  Edward  Carson  has  practised  the 
oratory  of  a  stage  rebel.  But  what  in  very 
truth  is  this  Act  of  Union  which  Orangemen  would 
have  us  hold  as  something  sacrosanct  and  pure  ? 
It  is  something  to  shudder  the  soul  of  an  honest 
man. 

Hear  what  Lecky  has  to  say  :  "  The  years  between 
1779  and  1798  were  probably  the  most  prosperous 
in  Irish  history,  and  the  generation  which  followed 
the  Union  was  one  of  the  most  miserable.  The 
sacrifice  of  Nationality  was  extorted  by  the  most 
enormous  corruption  in  the  history  of  representa- 
tive institutions.  It  was  demanded  by  no  con- 
siderable portion  of  the  Irish  people.  ...  As  it 
was  carried,  it  was  a  crime  of  the  deepest  turpitude, 
which,  by  imposing  with  every  circumstance  of 
infamy  a  new  form  of  government  on  a  reluctant 
and  protesting  nation,  has  vitiated  the  whole 
course  of  Irish  opinion."  Professor  Dicey  declares 
that  if  the  Act  of  Union  could  have  been  referred 
to  a  court  of  law,  it  must  at  once  have  been  can- 
celled "  as  a  contract  hopelessly  tainted  with  fraud 
and  corruption."  Gladstone  said :  "I  know  no 
blacker  or  fouler  transaction  in  the  history  of  man 


34  BY   WAY    OF   INTRODUCTION 

than  the  making  of  the  Union  between  England 
and  Ireland."  Ireland,  indeed,  was  swindled  out 
of  her  national  independence  ;  and  the  traitors  in 
her  own  camp  were  either  rewarded  with  titles  or 
paid,  Hke  cash  tradesmen,  with  enormous  sums  of 
money,  which  a  shameless  England  did  not  scruple 
to  charge  upon  Ireland. 

This  is  the  great  Act  for  which  Lord  Londonderry, 
Sir  Edward  Carson,  and  the  Orangemen  of  Belfast, 
with  a  weU-advertised  piety,  are  ready  to  lay  down 
their  lives,  for  which  they  are  willing  to  perish  in 
metaphor  on  the  banks  of  the  Boyne,  the  sacred 
document  with  which  they  make  piteous  and 
theatrical  appeal  to  the  loyalty  of  ignorant  Enghsh- 
men.  England,  that  first  set  herself  to  conquer, 
then  to  exterminate,  and  afterwards  to  beggar  the 
inhabitants  of  Ireland,  by  this  Act  of  Union,  Hke  a 
common  scoundrel  on  Epsom  Heath,  deliberately 
swindled  Ireland  out  of  her  national  independence. 
And  ever  since  that  day,  an  impoverished,  dispirited, 
and  vanishing  Ireland  has  struggled  by  every 
means  in  her  faiHng  power  to  recover  that  without 
which  she  can  neither  Hft  up  her  head  nor  restore 
her  broken  fortunes — struggled  heroically,  des- 
perately, violently,  and  for  a  Httle  space  criminally, 
to  recover  her  spirit  of  Nationahty. 

When  you  consider  the  history  of  Ireland,  are  you 
not  amazed  that  any  man  in  England  can  be  found 
to  sneer  at  that  tide  of  almost  holy  money  which 


BY    WAY    OF    INTRODUCTION  35 

the  expatriated  children  of  Ireland  save  and  send 
home  every  year  for  the  recovery  of  their  country's 
freedom  ? 


IV 
WITHIN   LIVING   MEMORY 

The  old  man  sat  forward  in  his  chair,  holding  a 
black  felt  hat  in  his  hands  which  he  swung  nervously 
between  his  legs.  His  pale  face  was  clean-shaven 
and  thin,  the  features  refined,  the  dark  eyes,  set 
deep  under  the  brows,  appeared  dim  and  blurred. 
His  hair,  of  which  he  had  plenty,  was  the  colour  of 
snow. 

The  Bishop,  in  biretta  and  soutane,  leaned  against 
the  mantelpiece,  and  questioned  the  old  man : 
"  You  remember  the  great  famine,  don't  you — the 
famine  of  '47  and  '48  ?  " 

In  slow  and  deliberate  fashion,  speaking  in  a 
deep  voice,  the  old  man  made  answer  :  "I  do,  me 
lord  ;   I  remember  it  very  weU." 

"  Tell  us  something  about  it,  something  that  you 
yourself  saw  and  knew.    You  understand  me  ?  " 

"  Perfectly,  me  lord.  I  understand  you  very 
weU." 

"  Come,  then,  let  us  hear  what  you  have  to  say." 

"  Well,  me  lord  " — sitting  back,  opening  the  top 
button  of  his  frieze  coat,  and  assuming  the  grave 


36  BY    WAY    OF   INTRODUCTION 

expression  of  a  national  historian — "  I  remember 
the  day,  just  as  if  it  was  only  last  week,  when  me 
father  come  home  and  said  that  the  taties  were 
specked.  There  were  little  black  spots  all  over 
them.  That,  me  lord,  was  the  beginning  of  the 
great  famine.  The  seed  pertaties,  do  you  see, 
were  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  but  teU  us  what  you  yourself  saw  and 
suffered." 

"  I  wiU,  me  lord."  After  a  pause,  shifting  in  his 
chair,  and  moistening  his  Hps  :  *'  Well,  me  lord,  I 
remember  very  well  that  all  round  the  country 
hereabouts  the  tatie  crop  was  a  failure.  The 
ground  gave  nothing  but  little,  poor  things  no 
bigger  than  marbles,  and  all  specked  with  the 
disease  ..." 

*'  Yes,  yes  ;  but  tell  us  about  the  people,  about 
yourself  ;  teU  us  how  you  lived  during  the  famine." 

"  How  we  lived,  me  lord  !  God  knows  we  Uved 
very  poorly.  There  was  nothing  for  us,  don't  you 
see,  but  the  little  specked  taties,  and  not  many  of 
them.  I  remember  how  me  mother  gave  most  of 
that  food  to  me  father,  saying  that  he  had  to  do 
the  work  in  the  fields,  and  needed  the  food  more 
than  the  rest  of  us.  She  herself,  good  soul,  took 
just  enough  to  help  her  through  the  day's  work  ; 
and  we  little  ones  got  what  was  left,  which  was 
sometimes  only  the  water  in  which  the  taties  had 
been  boiled.    It  was  hungry  times,  me  lord.    Ah, 


BY    WAY    OF    INTRODUCTION  37 

and  it  got  worse.  Soon  there  were  no  taties  at  aU. 
I  can  mind  how  we  went  out  to  hunt  for  turnips  in 
the  field.  Turnips  are  good  food,  but  the  starving 
sheep  were  of  the  same  opinion  ! — they  left  Httle  of 
them  for  us  at  all.  We  used  to  puU  up  the  roots, 
the  httle  tail  of  the  roots,  which  the  sheep  had  left 
in  the  earth  after  eating  down  the  turnips  level 
with  the  ground.  There  was  not  much  nourish- 
ment in  that,  me  lord,  but  we  were  terribly  grateful 
to  find  them  roots.  Then  it  came  to  chewing  nettles 
and  docks,  and  even  grass.  I've  seen  people  nearly 
mad  for  food  chewing  a  handful  of  rank  grass.  Ah, 
me  lord,  they  were  bad  times,  bad  times  they 
were." 

"  And  the  people  died  ?  " 

"  Like  flies,  me  lord  ;  and  particular  the  Httle 
children.  They  died  so  fast  there  was  no  time  for 
decent  burial.  A  big  box  was  made  ;  it  was  driven 
round  on  a  car  ;  the  poor  dead  bodies  were  picked 
up  in  the  road  or  taken  out  of  the  houses,  put  in 
the  box,  and  then  carted  to  the  burying-ground, 
A  great  pit  was  dug  there,  and  into  that  pit  the 
dead  bodies  were  tumbled  out  of  the  box,  one  atop 
of  the  other.  Terrible  times  !  It  was  wonderful, 
me  lord,  how  people  died  in  them  times.  They 
died  standing,  died  leaning  against  doors,  dropped 
down  sudden  in  the  road.  I  remember  me  father 
coming  on  a  man  who  was  resting  against  a  wall. 
Me  father  was  a  terrible  man  for  his  pipe,  and  he 


38  BY    WAY    OF    INTRODUCTION 

offers  his  pipe  to  that  poor  fellow,  and  ses  he, 
'  Take  a  pull,  man,  it  will  warm  you,'  he  ses.  Then 
he  went  off  to  get  a  car  for  the  man  ;  but  when  he 
got  back  the  poor  fellow  was  leaning  in  the  same 
position,  dead  as  dead." 

"  And  you  were  turned  out  of  your  houses, 
weren't  you  ?  " 

"  That  is  so,  me  lord.  You  must  understand 
that  some  time  before  the  Government  had  made 
the  landlords  responsible  for  all  rates  and  taxes. 
Instead  of  collecting  from  the  tenants,  the  Govern- 
ment collected  from  the  landlords,  and  the  land- 
lords added  the  taxes  to  the  rents.  Well,  do  you 
see,  me  lord,  when  the  poor  starving  people  had  no 
money,  and  couldn't  pay  their  rents,  the  landlords 
stiU  had  to  pay  the  rates  and  taxes.  So  they 
thought  they  would  be  ruined,  and  it  seemed  to 
them  better  to  have  the  houses  empty,  because 
then  they  wouldn't  have  to  pay  the  taxes.  That 
was  how  it  was,  me  lord." 

"  WeU,  what  did  they  do  ?  " 

"  When  the  tenants  wouldn't  turn  out,  me  lord, 
the  agent  came  with  a  party  of  men,  and  they 
swung  a  great  rope  under  the  eave  of  the  thatch, 
and  then,  with  a  kind  of  a  jerk  and  a  run  backwards, 
they  ripped  the  roofs  clean  off  the  httle  cabins.  If 
that  didn't  do,  they  set  fire  to  the  house.  We  were 
burned  out,  me  lord,  like  rats.  Ah,  it  was  a  sight 
to  see  the  roads  filled  with  men,  women,  and  chil- 


BY    WAY   OF   INTRODUCTION  39 

dren,  all  starving  and  dying,  with  no  home  at  all, 
and  no  shelter  from  the  rain.  It  was  a  sight  I  shall 
never  forget,  me  lord — never.  Hundreds  and  hun- 
dreds of  men,  women,  and  children.  .  .  ." 

The  Bishop  turned  to  me.  In  a  whisper  he  said : 
"  One  of  the  landlords  in  the  neighbourhood  was  a 
Church  of  England  clergyman.  He  kept  a  yacht, 
which  he  used  to  fill  with  disreputable  women,  and 
then  go  cruising  in  the  Mediterranean  !  "  He  added : 
"  What  made  the  famine  so  hard  for  the  people  to 
bear  was  their  knowledge  that  food  existed  in  Ire- 
land plentiful  enough  to  supply  their  needs.  But  it 
was  sent  to  England.  It  was  sent  where  money 
could  be  got  for  it.  And  the  money  was  required  to 
pay  the  landlords'  rents." 

"Ah,  that  is  true,  me  lord,"  exclaimed  the  old 
man,  smiting  his  knee  with  a  clenched  fist.  "  There 
was  plenty  of  good  food  in  the  country,  plenty  ; 
but  we  weren't  allowed  to  touch  it.  .  .  ." 

In  another  part  of  the  country  you  may  see  a 
magnificent  house  standing  in  a  great  demesne  and 
surrounded  by  a  wall.  To  make  the  demesne, 
farmers  were  turned  out  of  their  holdings,  and  given 
miserable  land  on  the  hillside  ;  to  lay  the  roads,  to 
build  the  mansion,  and  to  erect  the  wall,  tenants 
were  ordered  to  give  so  many  days'  work — "  duty 
days  " — for  which  they  received  no  wages. 

A  lady  belonging  to  what  is  called  the  "  English 
garrison"  said  to  me:  "I  blame  the  landlords  for 


40  BY   WAY    OF   INTRODUCTION 

everything  bad  that  has  happened  in  Ireland.  They 
had  the  greatest  chance  in  the  world."  They  were 
not  all  bad  ;  some  were  good  men  ;  but  among 
them  were  monsters,  tjrrants,  and  petty  thieves. 

The  patience,  the  submissiveness,  the  loyalty,  the 
devotion,  and  the  courtesy  of  the  Irish  peasant — 
even  now,  after  centuries  of  tjnranny  and  brutahty — 
fill  the  mind  with  admiration  and  with  wonder. 
And,  remember,  they  have  heard  with  their  ears 
the  story  of  our  past  oppressions,  and  there  are  still 
hving  old  people  who  teU  how  landlords  burned 
them  hke  rats  out  of  their  wretched  hovels  when 
the  land  was  wasted  by  famine.  "  Och,  but  sure 
that  was  in  the  old  times,  your  honour,"  says  the 
peasant ;  "  thim  was  terrible  times  ;  but,  glory  be 
to  God,  it's  a  different  time  now  altogether." 


CHAPTER   II 
THE   BISHOP'S   DREAM 

IT  was  my  good  fortune  to  spend  a  few  days  in 
the  beautiful  and  happy  south  of  Ireland  with 
a  very  remarkable  Roman  CathoUc  Bishop.  This 
brilliant  and  engaging  man  is  chiefly  famous  as  an 
authority  on  the  financial  relations  between  Great 
Britain  and  Ireland.  Blue  Books  are  the  staple  of 
his  reading,  as  statistics  are  the  passion  of  his  life. 
In  a  moment,  with  a  pinch  of  snuff  between  thumb 
and  index,  his  biretta  at  the  back  of  his  head,  he 
can  tell  you  the  exports  and  imports  in  a  given  year, 
quote  you  the  latest  figures  from  the  Board  of  Trade, 
give  you  the  population  of  Belgium  or  Poland, 
analyse  the  entire  revenue  returns  of  Great  Britain, 
and  marshal  the  legions  of  humanity  in  three  orderly 
columns  of  pounds,  shilhngs  and  pence. 

But  he  is  something  more  than  auditor  to  the 
human  race  and  financial  expert  of  the  United 
Kingdom.  He  is  a  man  who  holds  that  fife  must 
be  controlled  and  directed,  that  it  can  be  made 
happy  and  secure,  that  it  is  whoUy  in  the  hands  of 
men  to   decide   whether  it   shall   flow  peacefully, 

41 


42  THE    BISHOP'S    DREAM 

broadly,  and  beautifully  to  its  destined  end.  He 
does  not  believe  in  a  Time  Spirit  that  urges  mortality 
forward.  He  does  not  believe  that  man  is  powerless 
in  the  winds  of  fate.  He  does  not  beheve  that  we  are 
driven  like  a  flock  of  sheep.  No  ;  he  beHeves  that 
the  same  choice  is  presented  to  nations  as  to  in- 
dividual men,  and  that  by  its  deHberate  choice  a 
nation  may  walk  quietly  towards  God,  as  by  its 
deHberate  choice,  or  the  mere  absence  of  decision 
one  way  or  the  other,  it  may  go  headlong  to  the 
devil.  He  argues  that  everything  depends  upon 
this  choice. 

One  night,  after  dinner,  we  sat  up  tiU  past  three 
in  the  morning  discussing  this  aspect  of  the  Irish 
question.  The  table  remained  uncleared ;  the 
housekeeper,  who  cooks  and  waits  and  does  every- 
thing else  in  the  house,  was  sent  to  bed.  At  the 
appointed  hour  the  Bishop  withdrew  to  say  his 
Office,  leaving  me  to  my  cigarette  and  my  reflections, 
and  then  returned  to  his  seat  at  the  head  of  the 
table.  And  the  night  ended — but  I  do  not  propose 
to  keep  the  reader  up  so  late — with  a  discussion 
on  the  Athanasian  Creed  ! 

With  one  arm,  clothed  in  the  sleeve  of  his  purple- 
edged  soutane,  laid  across  a  corner  of  the  disordered 
table,  his  buckled  shoes  tucked  under  his  chair,  the 
biretta  pushed  far  back  on  his  head  so  that  the 
thick  grey  hair  was  visible,  the  Httle  Bishop  leaned 
towards  me,  his  red  face  wreathed  with  smiles,  his 


THE    BISHOP'S    DREAM  43 

small,  deep-sunken  eyes  bright  with  animation,  his 
large  mouth  cheerful  with  good -humour,  and 
rolled  me  out  his  mind. 

So  far  as  I  can  remember  it,  this  was  the  soul  of 
what  he  said  : — 

"  People  in  England  do  not  understand  what  is 
at  the  back  of  our  demand  for  Home  Rule,  what  is 
the  spirit  that  animates  the  Irish  movement.  They 
remember  some  extravagant  utterance  of  a  Fenian, 
or  some  rather  flamboyant  piece  of  rhetoric  ejacu- 
lated by  a  heated  pohtician  in  the  excitement  of 
debate  ;  and  they  think  that  we  are  inspired  by 
hatred  of  England — the  whole  movement  of  Irish 
nationahty  inspired  by  hatred  of  England  !  Of 
course  there  are  in  Ireland  people  who  hate  England, 
and  of  course  there  are  many  more  people  who 
persuade  themselves  that  they  ought  to  hate  Eng- 
land ;  but  that  is  not  the  spirit  of  the  Irish  move- 
ment. In  England  you  have  people  who  say  feverish 
and  reckless  things  about  Germany,  and  I  suppose 
a  man  who  thought  it  worth  while  might  form  a 
collection  of  extracts  from  speeches  and  newspaper 
articles  which  would  make  it  seem  that  the  whole 
spirit  of  English  Imperiahsm  was  hatred  and 
jealousy  of  Germany.  But  would  it  be  true  ? 
Would  it  not  be  very  fooHsh  to  assert  that  the  whole 
pohcy  and  diplomacy  of  the  Enghsh  people  are 
inspired  by  enmity  towards  Germany  ? 

*'  WeU,  it  is  equally  fooHsh,  equally  untrue  and 


44  THE   BISHOP'S    DREAM 

unjust,  to  say  that  the  great  movement  of  the  Irish 
people  towards  freedom  and  self-government  is 
urged  forward  by  antagonism  to  England.  There 
is  antagonism  between  the  two  countries,  a  real, 
unalterable,  and  inevitable  antagonism,  but  that 
is  the  work  of  nature.  Politicians  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  Have  you  ever  thought  what  that 
antagonism  is  ?  It  is  one  of  the  main  arguments 
for  Irish  self-government,  traced  back  to  its  source, 
it  is  the  spirit  which  animates,  and  has  ever  animated, 
the  movement  of  Irish  nationaHty.  Let  us  talk 
about  it. 

"  England  is  a  rich,  industrial,  and  conquering 
nation.  Ireland  is  a  poor,  agricultural,  and  domesti- 
cated nation.  England's  population  has  increased 
by  leaps  and  bounds,  and  has  flooded  across  the 
habitable  globe,  taking  countries,  colonizing  coun- 
tries, estabHshing  an  empire  of  enormous  extent. 
Ireland's  population — since  the  Union  with  England 
— has  dwindled  in  a  desperate  degree.  Her  revenue 
has  fallen.  Her  trade  has  almost  vanished.  Her 
sons  do  not  go  forth  to  conquer  and  to  colonize,  but 
as  poor  emigrants,  weeping  bitterly  and  loth  to  go. 

"  What  is  the  antagonism  ?  It  is  economic. 
There  is  nothing  here  of  Celtic  hatred  for  the  Saxon, 
or  of  Saxon  contempt  for  the  Celt.  It  is  the  natural, 
the  inevitable  antagonism  which  separates  a  rich 
industrial  nation  from  a  poor  agricultural  nation. 
Unionist  politicians  maintain  that  the  wholly  an- 


THE    BISHOP'S    DREAM  45 

tagonistic  interests  of  the  two  countries  can  be 
combined,  can  be  made  one.  They  declare  that  the 
British  ParUament  can  budget  and  legislate  for 
two  countries  whose  interests,  talents,  and  re- 
sources are  entirely  different.  They  might  as  well 
argue  that  the  legislation  and  the  budgets  of  West- 
minster are  equally  suitable  for  Denmark  or  India  ! 
How  can  a  rich  industrial  nation  legislate  and 
budget  for  a  poor  agricultural  nation  ?  Who  would 
not  smile  if  a  pohtician  suggested  that  a  rich  man 
should  order  a  poor  man  to  keep  house  on  the  same 
scale  as  his  own  ?  Must  not  the  two  houses  be 
separate  in  finance  and  management,  even  as  they 
are  separate  in  bricks  and  mortar  ? 

"  Let  me  give  you  two  or  three  instances  of  the 
blunders  which  come  from  this  discordant  union. 
Take  Old  Age  Pensions.  In  England  five  shillings 
a  week  is  only  just  sufficient  for  the  needs  of  an 
old  person  ;  in  Ireland  it  is  too  much.  In  England 
it  is  hard  to  get  a  cottage  under  two  shillings  a 
week  ;  in  Ireland  rents  are  as  low  as  a  shiUing,  nine- 
pence,  even  sixpence  a  week.  Two  old  people  in 
England,  a  man  and  wife,  with  five  shiUings  a  week 
each  can  manage  to  live  ;  in  Ireland  such  a  couple 
are  unnecessarily  rich.  Not  only  are  commodities 
cheaper  in  Ireland,  but  the  manner  of  Hving  is 
simpler,  very  much  simpler.  Our  pensions  ought 
to  be  three-and-sixpence  a  week  at  the  most.  But 
Ireland  has  to  run  at  the  side  of  galloping  England, 


46  THE    BISHOP'S    DREAM 

and  we  are  saddled  with  your  harness  and  pull  at 
your  load. 

"  Then,  again,  take  the  question  of  Income  Tax. 
In  England  you  place  no  tax  on  incomes  of  £160 
a  year,  and  you  deduct  this  sum  from  aU  moderate 
incomes  before  you  begin  to  take  your  toll.  WeU, 
this  is  perhaps  a  suitable  method  for  a  rich  country, 
a  country  where  there  is  a  vast  population  and  a 
very  considerable  number  of  extremely  well-off 
people.  But  it  is  unsuitable  for  a  poor  country  in 
which  the  numbers  of  very  wealthy  people  can  be 
reckoned  in  two  or  three  minutes.  This  objection 
apphes  equally  to  Death  Duties.  Ireland  keeps 
fairly  abreast  of  England  and  Scotland  among  the 
smaller  sums  contributed  by  moderate  estates,  but 
directly  we  come  to  very  considerable  estates  she 
contributes  nothing  at  aU.  Those  blanks  in  the 
columns  of  the  statistical  table  are  extremely  signifi- 
cant. 

"  Once  more  :  the  tendency  of  taxation  in  Eng- 
land is  towards  wealth,  and  wealth  alone.  Your 
phrase  the  '  Free  Breakfast  Table  '  means  that  you 
want  to  reUeve  the  poor  of  every  single  tax  in  your 
budgets.  You  seek  to  take  off  the  toll  on  tea,  on 
sugar,  on  coffee,  on  currants,  perhaps  on  tobacco. 
WeU,  that  is  very  good,  it  is  excellent — for  a  rich 
country.  But  do  you  see  what  that  means  ?  It 
means  this  :  that  if  the  Union  continue,  if  the 
enactments  of  your  Chancellors  of  Exchequer  are 


THE    BISHOP'S    DREAM  47 

to  apply  to  Ireland  equally  with  England,  Ireland 
wiU  be  a  dead  unprofitable  loss  of  many  millions 
a  year  to  the  British  Treasury.  Do  you  see  ? 
That  is  inevitable.  You  wiU  get  a  Httle  from  income 
tax,  something  from  excise,  almost  nothing  from 
death  duties,  and  absolutely  nothing  at  aU  from 
customs.  Are  you  prepared  for  that  loss  ?  Do  the 
people  of  England  care  to  pay  aU  the  bill,  are  they 
prepared  to  fill  Ireland's  purse  and  leave  her  free  to 
enjoy  herself  ? 

"  Consider,  on  the  other  hand,  how  much  more 
reasonable  it  is  that  Ireland  should  keep  house  for 
herself.  We  should  economize,  because  we  are 
poor.  We  should  simphfy,  because  we  are  not 
ambitious.  And  we  should  arrange  our  taxes  to 
suit  the  means  of  our  own  people.  We  should  tax 
small  incomes,  levy  death  duties  on  small  estates, 
keep  the  taxes  on  tea,  coffee,  sugar,  and  tobacco  ; 
in  short,  the  direction  and  tendency  of  our  taxation 
would  be  towards  that  mark  from  which  yours  is 
every  year  moving  further  away.  We  should  keep 
house  as  Denmark  keeps  house,  or  as  Belgium  keeps 
house  ;  instead  of  having  our  house  kept  for  us  by 
the  wealthiest  and  most  extravagant  housekeeper 
in  the  whole  community  of  nations  ! 

"  Now,  you  may  say,  How  fooHsh  of  you  to 
cut  adrift  from  us,  when  by  your  own  showing  we 
shall  soon  be  paying  the  whole  cost  of  your  national 
existence,  while,  by  cutting  adrift,  you  wiU  have 


48  THE   BISHOP'S   DREAM 

to  shoulder  yourselves  the  entire  burden  of  that 
existence  !  WeU,  it  sounds  absurd,  it  sounds  rather 
simple  and  stupid.    But  consider  a  moment. 

"  In  England  you  think  of  patriotism  in  a  wide 
discursive  and  extended  manner.  Your  patriotism 
is  spread  over  a  vast  empire.  The  term  for  you 
connotes  imperial  grandeur  and  colonial  expansion. 
You  hardly  think  of  England  when  you  speak  of 
patriotism  ;  you  think  of  India,  Canada,  South 
Africa,  Austraha,  and  some  hundreds  of  Httle 
islands  scattered  you  hardly  know  where  !  It  is 
difficult  for  you  to  think  of  patriotism  as  something 
local,  racial,  and  circumscribed.  If  you  so  thought 
of  it,  you  might  be  tempted  to  despise  it.  But 
there  is  such  a  patriotism.  Denmark  has  it,  Switzer- 
land has  it — Ireland  has  it.  And  this  national, 
racial,  and  local  patriotism  is  a  spirit  that  makes 
for  independence.  It  is  a  spirit  that  dishkes  dictation 
from  outside,  that  cannot  be  content  to  sponge  on 
other  nations.  And  so  this  httle,  simple,  and  poor 
Ireland,  instead  of  wishing  to  sponge  upon  rich 
England,  desires  to  stand  on  her  own  feet,  to 
shoulder  her  own  burden,  to  pay  her  own  way,  to 
be  a  self-supporting,  self-respecting,  and  self-reliant 
nation. 

"  Why  ?  Is  it  only  the  obstinacy  of  conceit  ? — 
is  it  only  the  braggart  self-assertion  of  indepen- 
dence ?  A  little  of  that,  perhaps,  here  and  there. 
We  are  very  much  tarred  with  human  nature  !  But, 


THE    BISHOP'S    DREAM  49 

believe  me,  this  spirit  of  Irish  patriotism,  taken  aU 
in  all,  is  a  righteous  and  a  noble  spirit.  John 
Bright  saw  far  into  the  soul  of  Ireland  when  he  said, 
Throw  the  Irish  upon  themselves  ;  make  them  forget 
England.  We  want  to  be  thrown  upon  ourselves  ; 
we  want  to  forget  the  long  enmity  with  England  ; 
we  want  to  feel  ourselves  responsible  and  free.  It 
is  our  conviction  that  the  more  you  pay  our  bills, 
and  the  more  we  hang  upon  you  for  our  support, 
and  the  more  you  take  our  destiny  out  of  our  own 
hands,  the  more  swift,  the  more  searching,  the  more 
pervasive,  will  be  the  decay  of  our  Irish  manhood. 
And  that  is  something  we  do  not  wish  to  see  decay. 
We  are  ready  to  pay  for  it,  as  our  fathers  were  ready 
to  die  for  it.  We  say  to  England,  Trust  us  :  leave 
us  to  look  after  ourselves  :  we  have  a  business  to  do 
in  which  you  cannot  take  a  part,  the  achievement 
of  which  instead  of  being  a  danger  to  you  will  be  a 
source  of  strength — it  is  the  preservation  of  Irish 
character. 

"  And  now  we  come  to  a  subject  which  will  interest 
you  more  than  any  commercial  chatter  about  bud- 
gets and  taxation. 

"  I  do  not  say  that  every  Irish  pohtician  realizes 
the  truth  of  what  I  am  going  to  say  to  you,  nor  do 
I  assert  that  every  Irish  pohtician  wiU  agree  with 
my  sentiments.  But  I  am  pretty  certain  that  at 
the  back  of  the  Irish  movement,  consciously  or  un- 
consciously, the  ideas  that  I  am  now  going  to  set 


60  THE    BISHOP'S    DREAM 

before    you  are  the  driving  force,  the  animating, 
vitaHzing  spirit. 

"  Let  me  tell  you  my  ideas  in  the  shape  of  an 
aspiration,  an  ambition — ^if  you  Hke,  a  dream.  I 
hold  that  the  most  precious  thing  in  Ireland  is 
neither  the  shipbuilding  of  the  north  nor  the  agricul- 
ture of  the  south,  but  Irish  character.  Irish  charac- 
ter is  to  me,  being  a  local  patriot,  a  very  precious 
and  a  most  beautiful  thing.  The  tenderness  of  Irish 
character,  the  purity,  the  chastity,  the  domestic 
virtues  of  that  character,  the  simple  faith,  the  un- 
questioning content  and  the  wonderful  self-reHance 
of  Irish  character,  are  for  me  the  sovran  values  of 
Irish  nationahty.  I  want  to  preserve  them.  I  want 
to  develop  them.  And  so  I  ask  for  Home  Rule.  My 
ambition  is  that  Ireland  shaU  Uve  in  the  midst  of 
the  nations,  as  it  was  at  the  beginning  of  its  history, 
a  people  that  places  God  first,  a  people  that  does 
not  seek  to  be  rich,  arrogant,  and  conquering,  but 
devoted  to  beauty,  consecrated  to  hoUness,  content 
with  simple  things.  And  this  does  not  seem  to  me 
a  wild  or  an  unpractical  ambition.  Nature,  indeed, 
has  ordained  that  this  shall  be  our  destiny.  We 
have  httle  but  our  fields  and  gardens  to  support  us  ; 
our  inclination  is  almost  solely  towards  agriculture  ; 
we  have  little  or  no  taste  for  the  excitements  and 
excesses  of  a  civilization  founded  upon  industriahsm. 
We  are  a  people  who  love  family  hfe  and  who  befieve 
earnestly  and  sincerely  the  Christian  religion. 


THE    BISHOP'S    DREAM  51 

"  I  love  to  dream  that  Ireland  may  live  isolated 
and  yet  in  the  midst  of  those  tumultuous  nations 
who  are  abandoned  to  commerciaUsm,  a  place  where 
men  may  come  from  other  lands,  as  it  were  to  a  re- 
treat— a  place  where  they  may  refresh  themselves 
with  faith  and  establish  in  quiet  the  central  touch 
of  the  soul  with  God.  I  love  to  think  of  Ireland 
peopled  by  a  humble  and  satisfied  humanity,  the 
villages  extending  through  the  vaUeys,  the  towns 
never  out  of  contact  with  the  fields,  the  cities 
famous  for  learning  and  piety,  the  whole  nation 
using  life  for  its  greatest  end,  its  ultimate  and  eternal 
purpose.  It  would  be  surely  a  good  thing  for  the 
British  Empire  to  have  such  a  sanctuary  at  its 
heart.  Might  not  such  an  Ireland  be  of  service  to 
England,  if  only  in  reminding  your  democracy  that 
no  wages  can  buy  happiness  ?  Are  you  not  in  some 
danger  in  this  respect  ? 

"  My  dream  for  Ireland  is  not  quixotic.  We  can 
never  be,  except  in  the  north,  an  industrial  nation. 
We  have  no  coal  to  speak  of,  we  are  too  far  from 
markets,  and  our  genius  is  not  in  that  direction. 
On  the  other  hand,  we  are  by  nature  and  by  in- 
cHnation  husbandmen.  We  can  get  a  living  where 
an  Englishman  would  starve.  We  grow  wheat 
where  an  Enghshman  would  feed  sheep.  We  are 
attached  to  the  soil  by  a  love  which  aU  the  tyranny 
and  madness  of  a  very  wicked  landlordism  has  not 
been  able  to  destroy.    And  we  are  rich  on  little. 


52  THE    BISHOP'S    DREAM 

"  The  strength  of  our  national  life  is  the  chastity 
of  our  women.  All  the  beauty  of  family  Hfe  in 
Ireland  flows  from  the  purity  of  Irish  mothers. 
You  have  seen  some  of  the  cabins  in  which  our 
people  Hve  ;  not  very  long  ago  almost  the  whole 
peasantry  of  Ireland  was  housed  in  that  way — 
one  wretched  room  for  the  existence  of  a  family — 
for  eating,  sleeping,  everything.  Well,  in  spite  of 
such  a  dreadful  environment,  the  purity  of  the 
people  has  persisted.  Our  women  are  chaste,  our 
men  are  chivalrous,  our  children  are  virtuous. 
Nothing  seems  able  to  brutaUze  them.  Here  and 
there,  of  course,  evil  manifests  itself  ;  we  are  not 
perfect ;  but  rare  are  the  cases  of  seduction,  almost 
unknown  are  the  cases  of  adultery,  and  when  such 
things  occur  they  are  met  by  the  censure  and  the 
opposition  of  a  virtuous  pubhc  opinion.  We  can 
justly  boast  that  our  people  are  chaste.  Now,  with 
a  nation  so  minded,  and  left  to  develop  its  own  way 
of  hfe,  is  it  not  certain  that  Ireland  might  become 
the  sanctuary,  the  holy  place,  of  my  ambition  ? 
What  is  to  prevent  it  ?  Our  women  breathe  into 
the  souls  of  their  children  a  love  for  family  Hfe,  our 
men  teach  their  sons  to  cultivate  the  land  and  to 
turn  the  temper  of  the  sulkiest  soil  on  the  side  of 
a  hill ;  and  father,  mother,  and  children  beHeve 
in  God.  Is  there  not  here  everything  that  makes 
for  the  beauty  of  Hfe  and  the  sanctity  of  social  exist- 
ence ? 


THE    BISHOP'S    DREAM  53 

"  I  do  not  mean  that  there  will  be  no  progress, 
that  we  shall  remain  cultivators  and  nothing  but 
cultivators.  We  hope  to  raise  our  population  to 
at  least  ten  millions,  and  agriculture  must  therefore 
be  fortified  by  industries.  But  we  shall  seek  to 
develop  village  industries.  Instead  of  factory  towns, 
with  their  horrible  slums,  their  poverty,  and  spiritual 
degradation,  we  shall  add  Uttle  workshops  and  little 
factories  to  our  villages.  We  shall  always  be  in  the 
first  place,  cultivators.  We  shall  be  the  market- 
garden  of  England,  perhaps  one  of  its  wheat-fields, 
and  this  will  be  our  chief  employment.  But  we  shall 
seek  to  supply  our  own  needs  in  the  way  of  manu- 
factures ;  so  far  as  we  can,  we  shall  endeavour  to 
make  locally  some  at  least  of  our  chief  necessities. 
It  will  never  be  our  objective  to  export  these  manu- 
factures, never  our  ambition  to  come  into  com- 
mercial conflict  with  the  great  manufacturing 
nations  like  England  and  Germany  ;  no,  we  shall 
be  content  to  make  what  we  can  for  ourselves,  and 
to  support  ourselves  firstly  and  chiefly  by  the  fruit 
of  our  fields. 

"  Why  cannot  we  do  all  this  under  the  Union  ? 
Because  we  have  no  incentive  of  enthusiasm ; 
because  we  are  spoon-fed  and  debilitated  with  one 
of  England's  hands,  let,  hindered,  and  obstructed 
with  the  other  ;  because  our  intellect  is  absorbed 
by  poHtics  ;  because  we  have  a  passion  for  freedom  ; 
because  we  cannot  rest  while  we  are  governed  by 


64  THE    BISHOP'S    DREAM 

another  ;  because  the  form  of  government  under 
which  we  Uve  has  impoverished  our  industries  and 
drained  our  population.  It  will  take  years  before 
we  can  recover  the  lost  ground,  but  with  the  first 
beating  of  enthusiasm  in  the  blood  of  Ireland's 
freedom  that  recovery  wiU  begin. 

"  Have  I  made  you  feel,  have  I  convinced  you, 
that  the  Irish  question  is  a  spiritual  question,  a 
rehgious  question  ?  Our  movement  in  its  soul  is 
that,  nothing  but  that.  We  do  not  believe  in  the 
strife  of  industrialism.  We  do  not  believe  in  the 
struggle  for  existence.  We  seek  to  disengage  our- 
selves from  aU  that  strife  and  struggle,  into  which 
the  Union  has  dragged  us,  in  order  that  we  may 
follow  our  own  way  of  Hfe,  which  is  quiet,  simple, 
and  modest.  We  are  quite  certain  that  materiaUsm 
is  wrong.  What  is  more  important,  we  are  quite 
certain  that  idealism  is  right.  We  make  the  con- 
scious choice  of  beauty  and  peace,  rather  than  ugH- 
ness  and  contention.  We  deliberately  elect  for 
God,  and  as  deUberately  we  reject  Mammon. 

"You  hear  people  say  that  Home  Rule  will  be 
the  death-blow  of  Rome  in  Ireland.  That  is  not 
true.  Ireland  is  rehgious,  and  Ireland  is  Catholic. 
At  first,  perhaps,  the  strong  wine  of  freedom  may 
tempt  the  younger  generation  to  resent  the  paternal 
interference  of  the  priest ;  at  first  there  may  be  an 
imreckoning  enthusiasm  for  secular  education,  lead- 
ing to  agnosticism  ;    but  the  habit  of  religion  will 


THE    BISHOP'S    DREAM  55 

assert  itself  again.  I  welcome  Home  Rule  for  one 
thing  in  this  respect,  that  it  will  deliver  the  parish 
priest  from  the  sphere  of  politics,  and  set  him  free 
for  his  purely  spiritual  duties.  Remember  that  the 
priest  has  been  driven  into  poMtics.  In  the  bad 
times,  before  recent  legislation,  the  peasants  had 
no  one  else  to  whom  they  could  carry  their  com- 
plaints against  the  landlord  or  his  agent.  The 
priest  was  the  witness  of  barbarous  cruelties.  He 
saw  his  people  defrauded,  starved,  iU-treated,  some- 
times debased  and  demorahzed,  driven  into  exile. 
Do  you  wonder  that  he  became  a  pohtician  ?  Would 
not  EngUsh  clergymen  become  poHticians  in  a  like 
circumstance  ?  But  with  Irish  freedom,  the  excuse, 
the  justification,  for  this  pohtical  interference  wiU 
go.  And  then  the  parish  priest  will  devote  himself 
solely  to  the  spiritual  needs  of  his  people,  he  will 
instruct  them  exclusively  how  to  live,  and  leave 
them  to  vote  as  they  will. 

"  You  have  seen  something  of  the  influence  of  the 
Irish  priest.  You  are  not  a  CathoHc,  but  do  you 
see  anything  in  that  influence  which  is  evil  or 
dangerous  ?  Does  not  the  parish  priest,  whatever 
be  his  dogmas,  teach  virtue  and  the  love  of  God  ? 
Do  you  know  of  any  country  in  the  world  where 
the  priest  is  more  closely  and  intimately  associated 
with  the  family  life  of  the  nation,  where  his  in- 
fluence is  more  powerful  for  beauty,  kindness,  and 
chastity  ?     Again,  do  you  know  of  any  clergy  in 


66  THE   BISHOP'S   DREAM 

the  world  with  fewer  black  sheep  among  them  than 
the  clergy  of  Ireland  ? 

"  I  am  not  afraid.  Time  wiU  bring  changes,  life 
wiU  advance,  knowledge  wiU  modify  even  those 
opinions  which  seem  to  us  now  of  primary  im- 
portance ;  but  the  essential  characteristic  of  the 
Irish  nature  wiU  endure,  and  that  characteristic  is 
the  rehgious  sense.    Ireland  will  never  be  infidel. 

"  So  it  all  comes  to  this  :  under  the  Union  we  are 
dragged  against  our  wiU,  we  a  poor  and  simple 
agricultural  people,  into  the  roaring  machinery  and 
the  extravagant  organization  of  a  rich,  complex,  and 
industrial  civihzation.  The  more  you  bear  our 
burdens,  the  more  you  paralyse  our  sense  of  re- 
sponsibility. The  more  you  advance  along  your 
difficult  road,  the  more  you  drag  us  from  our 
firesides  and  our  fields.  We  do  not  desire  a  complex 
civihzation.  We  do  not  want  to  become  sophisti- 
cated. We  disHke  and  we  suspect  the  elaborate 
machinery  of  your  social  hfe.  We  say  to  you.  Set 
us  free  :  leave  us  to  pursue  our  own  path,  to  fulfil 
our  own  destiny.  We  feel  that  something  more  than 
our  fortunes  are  bound  up  in  this  plea  for  self- 
government  ;  it  is  our  character.  You  destroy  our 
independence,  you  paralyse  our  self-rehance,  you 
take  away  from  us  what  God  gives  as  a  chief  blessing 
to  a  nation,  our  sense  of  responsibihty.  We  tend 
under  the  Union  to  become  the  parasites  of  your 
wealth,  the  hangers-on  of  your  imperial  greatness, 


THE    BISHOP'S    DREAM  57 

the  sponging  toadies  of  your  bounty.  That,  to  us, 
is  more  than  intolerable,  more  than  perilous  ;  it  is 
fatal  to  body,  soul,  and  spirit.  Canada  could  not 
advance  in  such  shackles,  AustraHa  could  not  ad- 
vance in  such  bonds.  South  Africa  in  such  a  case 
would  be  a  constant  danger  to  your  peace.  Your 
genius  is  to  preside  over  a  brotherhood  of  free 
nations,  to  leave  the  component  parts  of  your 
empire  to  develop  along  their  own  Hnes ;  the 
greater  the  freedom  you  grant  them,  the  greater 
their  loyalty,  the  greater  your  security.  Why  can- 
not you  treat  Ireland  in  the  same  way  ?  For  how 
many  centuries  have  you  tried  in  vain  to  govern 
her  from  London,  to  destroy  her  nationaUty,  and 
to  suppress  the  spirit  of  her  independence  ?  Why 
make  of  this  little  island  the  single  dark  exception 
to  the  briUiant  success  of  your  genius  for  empire  ? 

"  Beheve  me,  Ireland  will  never  be  at  rest  until 
she  is  free.  Until  you  set  her  free  she  will  be  a 
thorn  in  your  side.  There  will  always  be  Irishmen 
— even  if  the  dwindHng  mass  should  become  slothful 
and  apathetic — who,  for  the  sake  of  Irish  character, 
wiU  preach  the  ancient  gospel  of  freedom,  will  rouse 
the  undjdng  spirit  of  her  independence.  You  would 
surely  do  the  same  in  England,  if  some  power  were 
at  work  which  threatened  your  Enghsh  character, 
which  sapped  and  ruined  the  foundations  of  English 
manhood.  You  would  fight,  then,  not  for  empire, 
but  for  character,  for  hfe.    It  is  the  same  with  us. 


68  THE    BISHOP'S    DREAM 

Again  and  again  I  tell  you  that  we  are  at  war  with 
you  for  the  spirit  of  Irish  nationality.  We  do  not 
criticize  your  civiHzation,  we  admire  many  of  your 
splendid  quahties,  we  envy  you  much  of  your 
energy,  your  grit,  your  sterling  common  sense  ;  but 
we  think  that  your  civilization  is  not  suitable  to 
Ireland,  we  beheve  that  we  have  quahties  that 
are  of  value  to  mankind,  and  we  beheve  that  only 
by  exercising  the  functions  of  self-government  can 
we  develop  our  kind  of  energy,  our  kind  of  grit,  and 
our  kind  of  common  sense.  You  must  go  forward 
on  the  road  of  industrial  progress,  creating  new 
problems  as  fast  as  you  solve  old,  treading  down  and 
obhterating  landmarks  as  fast  as  you  set  up  new 
ones  ;  but  we  must  Hve  our  own  hfe  of  pastoral 
simphcity,  moving  more  slowly,  content  to  see  fresh 
horizons  when  God  reveals  them,  attempting  to 
solve  only  those  ancient  problems  which  frustrate 
the  growth  and  mar  the  beauty  of  man's  soul. 
Leave  us  to  that.  We  shall  be  then  no  hindrance 
to  your  progress.  And  perhaps  some  of  the  states- 
men of  your  new  democracy  may  occasionally  pay 
us  a  visit  to  see  how  an  old-fashioned  people,  follow- 
ing in  the  footsteps  of  its  ancestors,  manages  the 
business  of  human  hfe. 

"  Beheve  me,  we  wish  you  no  harm.  Most  cheer- 
fully shall  we  send  you  our  milk  and  butter,  our 
eggs  and  bacon,  our  cabbages  and  potatoes  ;  and 
always   most   dehghtfuUy   shall  we   welcome  you 


THE    BISHOP'S    DREAM  59 

to  our  shores  when  you  are  in  need  of  quiet  and 
repose  ! 

"  Am  I  a  dreamer  ?  Well,  when  you  are  in  Belfast 
perhaps  you  may  think  so.  But  go  among  our 
peasants  ;  sit  by  their  peat-fires,  stand  in  their 
gardens,  visit  their  cowsheds,  walk  through  their 
fields,  and  you  will  find  that  I  do  not  dream.  And 
do  remember,  when  you  are  in  Belfast,  that  some- 
thing Uke  70  per  cent  of  Ireland's  population  is 
engaged,  directly  or  indirectly,  in  agriculture,  and 
that  only  30  per  cent  is  industrial.  My  dream  is 
the  aspiration  of  the  Irish  people,'* 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   LIFE   OF   A   TOWN 

*'  O  O  many  people  in  England,"  said  the  little 
'^  Bishop,  "  beUeve  the  legend  of  Roman 
Cathohc  intolerance,  that  I  should  hke  you  to 
take  a  walk  through  this  town  and  make  your 
own  inquiries  of  the  shopkeepers.  You  will  find 
that  aU  the  principal  shops  are  kept  by  Protestants." 
The  town  is  CathoHc  ;  it  is  situated  in  the  centre 
of  an  agricultural  district  which  is  almost  entirely 
Cathohc.  The  Protestants  are  numbered  by  tens, 
the  CathoHcs  by  thousands. 

It  is  one  of  those  half-sleepy  and  half-dreamy 
towns  which  a  man  in  a  motor-car  regards  with 
Ufted  eyebrows  and  a  bored  contempt — only  in- 
terested if  he  has  to  lunch  there,  and  then  mightily 
depressed.  Except  on  market-days,  when  pic- 
turesque peasants  throng  its  narrow  pavements 
and  crowd  its  little  shops,  when  every  conceivable 
kind  of  vehicle  and  every  possible  specimen  of 
horse  and  donkey  get  themselves  into  inextricable 
confusion  in  the  one  long  curving  street,  when  old 
women,  with  old  baskets  over  their  arms  and  old 

60 


THE  LIFE    OF    A   TOWN  61 

hooded  cloaks  over  their  heads,  tramp  in  from  far- 
away villages  to  do  their  week's  marketing,  and 
when  fox-Hke  looking  men,  long-hpped,  small-eyed, 
and  whiskered,  flourishing  long  sticks  and  shouting 
uninteUigible  maledictions,  urge  cows,  sheep,  pigs, 
and  goats  through  the  crowd — only  then  does  the 
town  open  its  eyes  quite  wide,  raise  its  nodding 
head,  pull  down  its  waistcoat,  settle  its  collar,  and 
reahze  the  existence  of  mankind. 

Not  beautiful,  not  ancient,  and  not  really  pic- 
turesque, there  is  nevertheless  something  ingratiat- 
ing and  restful  in  this  drowsy  town.  It  is  of  a  size 
which  makes  for  human  intercourse.  Everybody 
knows  everybody,  and  as  there  are  two  of  everybody 
in  particular,  existence  is  saved  from  dullness  and 
stagnation.  One  is  conscious  of  a  ruffle  of  com- 
petition. There  are  certainly  two  doctors,  as  cer- 
tainly two  solicitors,  as  certainly  two  bank-managers, 
as  certainly  two  priests,  and  if  not  two  bishops  at 
least  a  sufficiency  of  clerical  aggressiveness  on 
the  part  of  Protestants  to  temper  the  episcopal 
monopoly  of  the  Catholic  bishop. 

Moreover,  there  are  certain  representatives  of 
the  EngUsh  "  garrison  "  hving  tea-party,  gardening, 
and  Diana  lives  in  villages  close  at  hand,  so  that 
the  Httle  town  is  not  without  a  touch  of  aristocracy, 
a  breath  of  culture.  One  likes  to  see  the  brougham 
of  Sir  Thomas  pulled  up  before  the  poulterer's  door, 
to  see  the  Colonel's  dog-cart  and  the  Colonel's  eye- 


62  THE  LIFE    OF   A   TOWN 

glass  come  grandly  round  the  corner,  and  to  see  Miss 
Priscilla  and  Master  Greorge  walking  their  ponies  over 
the  cobbles,  their  eyes  directed  to  the  tuck-shops. 

Now,  will  you  beUeve  it — will  you  beUeve  it  after 
all  you  have  read  in  Orange  pamphlets  and  Unionist 
newspapers — will  you  beUeve  that  all  the  chief  shops 
of  this  market-town  are  kept  by  Protestants  and  are 
supported  by  Cathohcs  ?  A  gentlemanly  and  blushing 
young  Methodist,  presiding  over  the  counter  of  a 
flourishing  grocery  stores,  informed  me  that  he 
had  the  Bishop  on  his  books,  most  of  the  CathoUc 
priests,  and  a  very  satisfactory  percentage  of  the 
CathoHc  population.  He  said  the  Catholics  were 
by  far  his  most  numerous  customers. 

"  Why  do  we  deal  with  these  Protestants,  why 
don't  we  go  to  our  own  CathoHc  grocers  ?  "  asked  the 
Bishop.  "  The  answer  is  very  simple  ;  it  is  not 
in  the  least  Satanic  !  We  go  to  the  Protestant  shops, 
because  the  Protestant  shopkeepers  are  better  men 
of  business  than  the  CathoHc  shopkeepers.  They 
give  us  better  value  for  our  money.  We  are  very 
glad  indeed  to  have  such  excellent  business-men 
serving  the  bodily  needs  of  the  community.  We 
do  not  inquire  to  what  church  they  belong  or  to 
which  poHtical  party  they  give  their  votes  ;  we 
judge  them  by  their  prices,  the  quaHty  of  their 
goods,  and  the  honesty  of  their  dealings.  They  are 
a  very  estimable  body  of  people.  We  Hke  them 
and  we  respect  them." 


THE   LIFE    OF    A    TOWN  63 

The  true  character  of  what  is  called  the  Re- 
ligious Difficulty  may  be  gathered  from  the  follow- 
ing incident,  which  occurred  in  quite  another  town 
situated  in  quite  another  district  of  the  south  of 
Ireland. 

This  town,  one  might  almost  say,  is  exclusively 
Catholic,  as  it  is  hotly  and  overwhelmingly  Home 
Rule.  A  manager  of  one  of  the  two  banks  began 
to  make  his  preparations  for  retirement,  and  the 
second-in-command  began  to  make  his  dispositions 
for  obtaining  the  managership.  But  he  was  in  a 
difficulty.  For  he  was  not  a  Home  Ruler,  and  he 
was  not  a  Roman  Cathohc.  It  seemed  impossible 
to  suppose  that  the  directors  of  the  bank  would 
appoint  a  manager  so  unhkely  to  prosper  their 
business.  But  he  took  courage,  knowing  the  kind- 
ness of  his  chents,  and  went  among  the  chief  people 
of  the  town  asking  if  they  would  support  his 
appHcation.  He  met  with  not  one  single  refusal. 
Everybody  he  asked  signed  his  application,  and  he 
obtained  the  post. 

Two  Cathohcs  in  the  town,  speaking  to  me  of  this 
bank  manager,  used  almost  identical  words.     One 

of  them  said  :    "  Mr,  is  a  gentleman,  a  real 

gentleman  ;  there's  nothing  I  wouldn't  do  to  oblige 
him."     The  other  :     "  We  would  aU  do  anything 

for   Mr.    ,    because    he's   a    true    gentleman." 

Neither  of  them  could  tell  me  whether  he  was 
Home  Ruler  or  Unionist. 


64  THE  LIFE    OP   A   TOWN 

The  bank  manager  himself  said  to  me  :  "It  is 
quite  certain  I  should  never  have  got  the  post  if  I 
had  been  a  Unionist  poHtician  ;  but  my  reUgion 
made  no  difficulty  at  aU.  My  experience  of  Catholics 
is  this  :  they  do  not  ask  what  a  man  believes  in 
reUgion,  but  they  object  to  a  man,  CathoHc  or 
Protestant,  who  is  opposed  to  the  national  demand 
for  Home  Rule.  I  have  never,  in  the  whole  course 
of  my  experience,  come  across  one  single  instance  of 
CathoHc  intolerance." 

As  I  walked  with  the  little  Bishop  beside  the 
little  shops  of  his  httle  town,  I  told  him  of  this  bank 
manager,  and  he  said  to  me,  with  a  charming  smile, 
taking  my  arm  with  an  impulse  of  the  friendhest 
goodwill :  "  We  are  really  not  monsters  !  I  assure 
you,  whatever  our  shortcomings,  we  are  not  so 
black  as  we  are  painted  !  What  the  bank  manager 
said  to  you  is  probably  true — he  would  not  have 
got  his  comfortable  house  and  his  larger  salary  if 
he  had  been  an  active  politician  on  the  Unionist  side. 
Whenever  you  hear  of  CathoHcs  opposing  the 
advancement  of  a  Protestant  to  some  more  or  less 
pubHc  position,  you  may  be  perfectly  certain  that 
the  reason  is  poHtical.  They  might  oppose  a 
Protestant  who  mocked  and  maligned  their  re- 
Ugion ;  but  never — ^in  the  case  of  an  able  and 
honest  man — one  who  used  charity  to  his  rehgious 
neighbours  and  either  supported  Home  Rule  or  kept 
his  Unionism  for  his  private  life.     I  am  perfectly 


I'lioto.  Mason.  Dublin. 


A   TYI'ICAL   TOWN. 


l*hoto.  Mason.  iHiblin. 


AN   OVEKFLOW   AT   MASS. 


THE    LIFE    OF    A    TOWN  65 

certain  that  when  Home  Rule  comes,  a  very  large 
number  of  representatives  from  the  south  of  Ire- 
land wiU  be  Protestant  men  of  business,  Protestant 
men  of  position — ^in  fact,  that  very  class  which 
would  now  be  sitting  in  the  House  of  Commons  if 
they  were  NationaHsts." 

He  suggested  that  I  should  see  something  of 
CathoHc  education  in  an  agricultural  town,  and 
I  was  accordingly  taken  to  the  big  school  close  to 
the  modest  house  where  his  lordship  lives  with  a 
single  servant  to  look  after  his  needs. 

It  was  interesting  to  see  the  effect  produced  by 
his  entrance.  To  begin  with,  at  sight  of  him  the 
scholars  all  dropped  upon  one  knee,  while  the 
master,  or  mistress,  hurriedly  advanced,  and, 
kneehng,  kissed  the  episcopal  ring.  The  Bishop, 
who  is  a  democrat  and  a  starthng  innovator,  almost 
in  the  same  breath  as  he  gave  his  blessing,  told 
the  children  to  rise  and  began  asking  them  ques- 
tions. And  one  saw  that  the  kneehng  was  but 
a  ceremony,  a  mediaeval  courtesy  which  has  alto- 
gether lost  anything  it  may  have  once  possessed  of 
servihty  or  fear.  The  children's  faces  were  soon 
bright  with  smiles,  the  Bishop's  loud  laugh  rang 
through  the  rooms,  and  master,  or  mistress,  entered 
with  accustomed  pleasure,  completely  at  their  ease, 
but  always  respectful,  into  his  badinage. 

The  children,  with  but  very  few  exceptions,  were 
fat    and    weU-looking,  their    bodies   clothed  with 


66  THE    LIFE    OF    A   TOWN 

stubborn  homespun  and  their  feet  excessively  shod 
with  lasting  leather.  Here  and  there  a  pale  child, 
barefoot  and  ragged,  struck  a  tragic  note,  told  of 
drunken  parents,  and  witnessed  to  the  misery  of 
poverty.  But  such  children,  I  observed,  were 
placed  nearest  to  the  stove,  and  seemed  to  be  on 
perfectly  good  terms  with  the  well-dressed  children 
of  prosperous  tradesmen. 

In  these  Catholic  schools  there  is  a  refreshing 
absence  of  class-feeling,  of  money  differences,  of 
blighting  snobbishness. 

"  WeU,  young  giant,"  said  the  Bishop,  tapping 
a  Httle  stump  of  a  boy  on  the  shoulder,  "  what  are 
you  going  to  be  when  you  grow  up  ?  "  "  Soldier, 
sir."  "  Soldier  !  Why  a  soldier  ?  "  "  So  as  I  can 
fight  the  English,"  repUed  the  boy,  at  which  Bishop, 
schoolmaster,  and  class  burst  into  bountiful  laughter. 
"  Fight  the  EngHsh  !  "  I  said  reprovingly  ;  "  why, 
they're  going  to  give  you  Home  Rule.     Why  not 

fight  the ?  "  naming  a  most  charming  nation 

on  the  Continent.  The  Uttle  pugiHst  regarded  me 
with  perplexity  ;  I  was  Double  Dutch  to  his  under- 
standing. "Want  to  fight  the  English,"  he  mut- 
tered stubbornly. 

The  Bishop  said  to  me :  "  Properly  dressed  up, 
what  a  story  for  the  Orange  pamphleteer  !  A  whole 
schooKul  of  tremendous  big  boys  drilling  to  over- 
throw the  British  Empire  !  " 

We  visited  the  convent-school,  where  a  beautiful 


THE    LIFE    OF   A   TOWN  67 

Reverend  Mother  in  voluminous  garments  of  black 
that  seemed  to  fizz  and  crackle  as  she  knelt  to  kiss 
the  Bishop's  ring,  guided  us  with  a  merry  good- 
humour  through  the  bright  and  speckless  house. 

In  one  of  the  class-rooms  a  Bible  lesson  was  pro- 
ceeding. "  What  !  "  cried  the  Bishop,  wheeling 
round  upon  me  with  an  expression  of  simulated 
shock  ;  "  teaching  the  Bible  !  and  in  the  vernacular  ! 
How  terrible  !  Did  you  ever  know  of  such  wicked- 
ness ?  "  And  then  leaving  me  to  my  smiles,  he 
whipped  round  to  the  class,  and  began  asking  ques- 
tions suggested  by  the  Bible  lesson. 

"  AH  sin  is  wicked,"  he  said  ;  "  that  is  so,  is  it 
not  ?  "  "  Yes,  my  lord,"  in  treble  chorus,  from 
young  ladies  with  pinafores  and  hair-ribbons. 
"  Yes,  and  aU  sin  is  distressing  to  God,  all  sin  :  isn't 
that  so  ?  "  "  Yes,  my  lord."  "  But  there  are 
degrees  of  sin  :  some  sins  are  worse  than  other 
sins."  "  Yes,  my  lord."  "  Now,  stealing  is  a  sin, 
but  it  is  not  so  great  a  sin  as  murder  :  that  is  so, 
is  it  not  ?  "  "  Yes,  my  lord."  "  Murder  is  a  terrible 
sin  ?  "  "  Yes,  my  lord."  "  A  very  terrible  sin  ?  " 
"  Yes,  my  lord."  "  Now,  is  there  any  worse  sin  than 
murder  ?  "  Silence,  hesitation  among  pinafores 
and  hair-ribbons.  "  Think  a  moment ;  is  there  any 
worse  sin  than  killing  a  human  being  ?  "  One  shy 
hand  timidly  lifted.  "  WeU,  you  tell  us  ;  come  now, 
don't  be  shy,  tell  us  what  is  a  greater  sin  than  mur- 
der."    "  Please,  my  lord,  perjury."     "  Quite  right, 


68  THE    LIFE    OF    A   TOWN 

quite  right ;  and  can  you  tell  us  why  perjury  is  a 
greater  sin  than  murder  ?  Speak  up,  now."  After 
a  tremendous  moment  of  breath-drawing — "  Be- 
cause, my  lord,  murder  is  sin  against  man,  but 
perjury  is  sin  against  God."  The  Bishop  trium- 
phantly :  "  Do  you  see,  girls  ?  Perjury  is  a  greater 
sin,  because  he  who  commits  it  tries  to  make  God 
a  partner  of  his  sin.  He  calls  God  to  witness  to  a  he. 
God  is  all  truth.  And  the  perjurer  tries  to  make 
Him  a  Uar.  Perjury  is  a  spiritual  sin,  the  most  awful 
sin  we  can  commit.  Very  well,  then.  Good-bye, 
girls.    God  bless  you." 

And  in  the  next  room  the  Bishop  demands  : 
"  Now  how  many  girls  had  stirabout  for  breakfast 
this  morning  ?  "  Titters  and  confusion  from  this 
elegant  class  of  young  ladies  almost  marriageable. 
"  What,  only  one  !  Shameful !  Dreadful  !  WeU, 
now  let  us  see :  how  many  had  tea  ?  "  A  general 
uprising  of  elegant  hands  and  slender  arms.  "  Ap- 
palling ! "  cries  the  Bishop ;  "  oh,  shocking, 
shocking  ! "  Laughter,  simpering,  and  naughty 
whispering  among  the  fiUies.  "  WeU,"  says  the 
Bishop,  "  although  tea  cannot  compare  with  good 
porridge  it  is  a  pardonable  sin — but  remember,  only 
pardonable  when  it  is  freshly  made.  Now,  who 
can  tell  me  why  stewed  tea  is  bad  ?  "  A  blushing 
maid  volunteers  :  "  Because  tea  contains  tannin." 
"  And  what  is  tannin  used  f or  ?  "  "  For  hardening 
leather."     "  Quite  right ;    so  if  you  don't  want  to 


THE    LIFE    OF   A   TOWN  69 

have  stomachs  as  tough  as  leather  you  won't  drink 
stewed  tea,  will  you  ?  "  Then  he  explains,  smiHng 
and  gracious,  that  poor  people  in  Ireland  lose  their 
teeth  and  their  appetites,  become  wretched  and 
feeble,  because  they  destroy  their  digestions  with 
horrid  black  stewed  tea. 

The  Reverend  Mother  whispers  to  me  with  a 
tolerant  smile  :  "  The  Bishop  is  always  going  on 
about  stewed  tea.  It's  one  of  his  fads.  But  he 
reaUy  has  made  a  great  difference  in  the  habits  of 
the  people — he  is  always  teUing  them  about  open 
windows,  milk,  cleanliness,  and  proper  cooking. 
He's  a  regular  reformer  !  " 

Now  I  would  hke  you  to  know  that  the  Sisters 
teaching  in  this  school  were  very  nice  and  very 
cheerful  people.  Their  eyes  had  that  unfathomable 
depth  of  maternal  kindness  and  that  pleasing 
twinkle  of  quizzical  amusement  which  is  charac- 
teristic of  the  Irish  woman  ;  and  their  bright  faces 
shone  as  if  a  cake  of  soap  had  been  used  with  the 
vigour  of  a  housemaid's  hearthstone  ;  and  their 
linen  was  as  white  as  snow,  and  their  black  garments 
had  the  shine  and  rustle  of  a  Genevan  gown  in  the 
evangeHcal  pulpit  of  a  wealthy  congregation  ;  and 
everything  about  them  suggested  alacrity,  health, 
energy,  enthusiasm,  and  contentment.  Not  one  of 
them  gave  me  the  impression  of  the  paid  teacher 
who  is  bored  by  her  task  and  regards  her  pupils 
as  the  guilty  cause  of  her  spinster  hood.     Not  one 


70  THE   LIFE    OF   A   TOWN 

of  them  seemed  likely  to  terrorize  young  children 
or  to  make  religion  detestable. 

In  these  schools  I  had  a  feeHng  of  the  town's 
future,  the  nation's  morrow.  Outside  the  walls, 
in  the  pleasant  sunshine  and  the  drowsy  hum 
of  the  morning,  men  and  women  were  at  work  with 
worldly  business — the  peasant  sowing,  the  shop- 
keeper selling,  the  housewife  preparing  dinner,  the 
carpenter  building,  the  cobbler  hammering  on  his 
last,  the  smith  making  his  anvil  ring,  and  the 
merchant  weighing  a  speculation.  And  here, 
provided  with  all  the  necessaries  of  existence,  were 
those  who  some  day  would  be  bearing  the  burden 
of  the  town's  prosperity,  who  would  themselves  be 
the  money-getters  and  the  corn-growers  and  the 
bootmakers,  and  the  mothers  of  posterity.  Some- 
thing so  sweet  and  tender  and  intelligent  in  these 
children  seemed  to  assure  me  that  the  town's  future 
and  the  nation's  morrow,  enlightened  by  education 
and  consecrated  by  reHgion,  would  be  happier  and 
richer.  .  .  . 

One  of  the  doctors  in  this  town  was  kind  enough 
to  take  me  on  a  visit  of  inspection  to  the  infirmary. 
Here,  too,  I  found  Sisters  of  Mercy  in  charge  of  the 
patients — gentle,  merry,  and  tender-hearted  women 
with  whom  it  was  a  pleasure,  almost  a  tonic,  to 
come  in  contact.  Need  I  say  that  the  wards  were 
wonderfully  clean  and  bright  ? 


THE    LIFE    OF   A   TOWN  71 

I  shall  never  forget  as  long  as  I  live  some  of  the 
patients  in  this  hospital.  We  came  to  a  bed  on 
which  a  Httle  human  form  turned  upon  its  side 
was  discernible  by  the  humped  shape  of  the  huddled 
bed-clothes.  Going  round  to  the  further  side  of  the 
bed,  I  saw  upon  the  pillow  the  oldest  face  I  have 
ever  seen — a  skull  covered  with  wasting  wax-like 
skin,  the  Hds  of  cavernous  eyes  fast  closed,  the 
line  of  the  sunken  mouth  just  visible  in  the  midst  of 
infinite  wrinkles,  the  aquiUne  nose  shrunken  to 
the  hkeness  of  a  bird's  beak. 

As  if  she  were  a  mother  speaking  of  her  child,  the 
Sister  said  to  me  :   "  He's  such  a  dear  old  man  !  " 

"  How  old  is  he  ?  "   I  asked. 

"  Over  ninety.  And  the  poor  old  fellow  has  been 
lying  like  that  for  nearly  five  years.  He  is  quite  bed- 
ridden. He  will  never  leave  his  bed.  He  just  dozes 
and  sleeps  all  the  day,  and  all  the  night.  And  he 
never  complains  ;  he  is  just  waiting  for  God  to  take 
him." 

I  felt  a  shock  of  horror,  looking  at  the  ancient  in 
his  sleep  and  striving  to  imagine  such  a  doom  for 
myself,  G.ye  years  in  bed,  five  years  in  one  position, 
five  years  of  waiting  for  release. 

There  were  very  old  women  in  these  wards,  and 
little  children,  and  men  dying  visibly  and  swiftly  of 
consumption.  And  there  were  men  about  the 
place  who  bore  no  likeness  to  humanity  ;  soulless 
preatures,  misshapen,  misfeatured,  hideous  to  the 


72  THE    LIFE    OF   A   TOWN 

eye,  repellent  to  the  mind — idiots  and  degener- 
ates. 

The  doctor  said  to  me  :  "  There  is  a  movement 
to  have  the  Sisters  supplanted  by  trained  hospital 
nurses.  But  will  all  the  training  in  the  world  give 
nurses  to  poor  men  like  these,  as  kind,  as  gentle, 
and  as  sympathetic  as  the  Sisters  who  now  wait  upon 
them  for  the  love  of  God  ?  For  myself,  I  doubt  it. 
Religion,  it  seems  to  me,  ought  to  play  a  great  part 
in  the  nursing  of  the  poor." 

I  went  a  motor-drive  with  this  doctor,  and  he  told 
me  among  other  things  that  Mr.  Lloyd  George  was 
the  most  infamous  man  in  the  whole  world.     He 

made  no  exception,  not  even .    As  poHtely  as 

I  could,  and  as  diplomatically — ^for  it  is  never  quite 
safe  to  defend  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  before 
his  enemies,  and  on  this  occasion  I  was  a  Saxon  in 
a  Celtic  motor-car — ^I  hinted  that  Mr.  George  is 
really  not  so  entirely  deviHsh,  so  unreservedly  in 
league  with  Satan,  as  the  purest,  most  pious,  and 
most  cultured  classes  of  the  community  are  un- 
fortunately disposed  to  imagine.  But  the  doctor 
swept  my  feeble  straw-works  of  defence  to  one  side, 
and  charged  over  the  prostrate  body  of  my  de- 
bihtated  loyalty  with  a  sword-Mke  flash  of  indigna- 
tion and  contempt. 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  he  has  done,"  quoth  he  ; 
"  then,  you  shall  judge  for  yourself.  He  has  made 
my  hfe  a  hell.    He  has  made  every  doctor's  Hfe  a 


THE    LIFE    OF    A    TOWN  73 

hell.  Since  his  eruption — the  devil  take  his  soul  ! — 
there  is  not  a  doctor  in  the  land  whose  Hfe " 

"  You  are  speaking  of  the  Insurance  Act.  Well, 
you  must  remem " 

"  I  am  not  speaking  of  the  Insurance  Act  at  aU, 
at  all !    I'm  speaking  of  Old  Age  Pensions." 

And  then  the  doctor,  laughing  delightedly  at  my 
discomfiture,  proceeded  to  teU  me  how  he  is  now 
sent  for  at  every  hour  of  the  night,  and  called  out 
of  his  motor  at  every  mile  of  his  way  during  the  day- 
time, by  people  anxious  and  alarmed  over  nothing  in 
the  least  serious  which  has  happened,  or  is,  they 
think,  about  to  happen,  to  grandfather  and  grand- 
mother. 

"  Where  family  affection  did  not  exist  before," 
said  the  doctor,  "  your  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer has  created  it ;  and  where  it  did  exist,  he 
has  developed  and  intensified  it  to  a  degree  which 
doctors  find  utterly  insupportable.  It  is  really 
inhuman  !  One  might  almost  say  that  a  main  em- 
ployment of  the  peasants  nowadays  is  to  keep  their 
old  people  alive.  That  five  shilhngs  a  week  has 
worked  a  revolution.  But,  on  my  honour,  the 
blessing  has  tremendously  increased  a  country 
doctor's  work." 

He  spoke  of  other  revolutions. 

"  The  change,"  said  he,  "  made  by  the  Land 
Act  is  httle  short  of  amazing.  It  used  to  be  the 
hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  get  the  peasants 


74  THE    LIFE    OF   A   TOWN 

to  live  in  a  sanitary  way.  I  have  brow-beaten  them 
hundreds,  thousands  of  times,  for  keeping  animals 
in  their  cabins,  for  having  their  roofs  out  of  repair, 
for  leaving  their  broken  windows  unmended,  for 
the  general  beastHness  and  horror  of  their  homes. 
But  it  was  always  in  vain.  '  Och,  docther  dear  !  ' 
they  would  exclaim  ;  '  sure,  we  are  so  poor  we 
can't  afford  it  ! '  And  so  the  thing  went  on.  Sick- 
ness, disease,  epidemics,  death.  It  simply  broke 
one's  heart.  But  now — God  bless  you,  it's  the 
hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  find  a  really  dis- 
reputable cottage.  The  animals  Uve  outside  ;  the 
thatch  is  kept  in  good  order  ;  the  interiors  are 
beautifully  clean ;  and  the  people  wear  decent 
clothes.  You  would  never  know  them  for  the  same 
peasantry.  And  aU  this  change  is  due  to  the  Land 
Act.  In  the  old  days,  if  they  built  a  pig-sty,  if 
they  mended  their  roofs,  if  they  went  to  church  in 
anything  but  shabby  rags,  the  landlord's  agent 
raised  the  rent.  They  simply  could  not  afford 
to  be  self-respecting,  sanitary,  and  ambitious. 
It  was  too  expensive.  EngUsh  people  don't  reahze 
that.  All  the  dirt  and  squalor  of  the  Irish  peasant 
was  Uterally  created  by  insatiable  landlords." 

As  the  doctor  told  me  of  these  matters  I  recalled 
one  of  the  most  striking,  and  one  of  the  most  terrible 
passages  in  Henry  George's  Progress  and  Poverty. 
Do  you  remember  the  words  in  which  he  imagines 
a  universal  cry  of  humanity  to  the  Creator,  and 


THE    LIFE    OF    A   TOWN  75 

shows  how  the  answer  to  that  cry,  the  merciful  and 
miraculous  answer,  would  be  of  no  avail  ? 

"  In  the  very  centre  of  our  civilization  to-day 
are  want  and  suffering  enough  to  make  sick  at 
heart  whoever  does  not  close  his  eyes  and  steel 
his  nerves.  Dare  we  turn  to  the  Creator  and 
ask  Him  to  reheve  it  ?  Supposing  the  prayer  were 
heard,  and  at  the  behest  with  which  the  universe 
sprang  into  being  there  should  glow  in  the  sun 
a  greater  power  ;  new  virtue  fill  the  air  ;  fresh 
vigour  the  soil ;  that  for  every  blade  of  grass 
that  now  grows  two  should  spring  up,  and  the 
seed  that  now  increases  fiftyfold  should  increase 
a  hundredfold  !  Would  poverty  be  abated  or  want 
reUeved  ?  Manifestly  no  !  .  .  .  Landowners  would 
alone  be  benefited.  Rents  would  increase,  but 
wages  would  still  tend  to  the  starvation  point  !  " 

The  aboHtion  of  landlordism  in  Ireland — without 
the  miracle  of  a  more  bountiful  earth — has  worked  an 
absolute  revolution  in  Ireland.  It  has  transformed 
the  peasantry.  The  simple  pleasures  of  these  kindly 
and  industrious  people  have  been  increased,  their 
joy  in  work  has  become  intensified,  and  the  beauty 
of  their  home-fife  is  now  glad  and  confident,  without 
shadow,  and  without  fear. 

This  Act,  which  is  buying  out  the  Irish  landlords, 
commits  an  appalling  blunder  in  conferring  the 
land  for  aU  time  upon  the   descendants  of  those 


76  THE    LIFE    OF   A   TOWN 

who  by  mere  accident  are  its  present  occupiers — 
a  blunder  so  colossal  that  it  sickens  the  brain  to 
think  that  it  was  committed  in  the  full  light  of  day 
thirty  years  after  Henry  George  had  demonstrated 
the  salvation  of  State  Ownership  ;  nevertheless,  in 
getting  rid  of  tyrannous  landlords,  in  setting  up  a 
race  of  homesteaders,  and  in  giving  fixity  of  tenure 
to  the  peasants  of  an  agricultural  country,  it  has 
compassed  a  social  revolution.  The  greatest  credit 
is  due  to  Lord  Dunraven  for  his  conception  of 
this  measure,  and  to  Mr.  George  Wyndham  for 
its  conduct  through  the  House  of  Commons. 
Modern  Ireland  dates  from  the  passing  of  that 
Act. 

"  I  must  tell  you  an  amusing  story,"  said  the 
doctor.  "  I  was  rung  up  pretty  late  one  night  by  a 
peasant  from  an  outlying  village,  fifteen  miles  away. 
It  was  in  the  days  before  I  had  a  car.  The  wind 
was  blowing  horribly,  the  rain  was  sweeping  against 
the  house,  and  it  was  deadly  cold.  The  peasant 
asked  me,  rather  shamefacedly,  if  I  would  come 
and  see  his  mother.  I  invited  him  to  come  in  ;  I 
gave  him  a  glass  of  whisky.  '  Patrick,'  I  said, 
'  your  mother  is  a  very  old  woman.'  '  I  know  that, 
doctor,'  he  admitted.  '  She's  over  eighty,  Patrick.' 
'  She  is  all  that,  doctor.'  'And  nothing  that  I  could  do 
to-night  would  be  of  the  smallest  use  to  her.'  '  Sure 
doctor,'  said  he,  '  I  know  very  well  it's  the  truth 
you're  telhng  me  ;    but  me  poor  mother,  do  you 


THE    LIFE    OF   A   TOWN  77 

see,  would  have  me  come  and  fetch  you  because 
she  does  not  want  to  die  a  natural  death.'  " 

Another  story  the  doctor  told  me.  One  of 
his  patients,  brought  to  death's  door,  had  a  long  talk 
with  the  priest.  On  the  following  day  he  said  to 
the  doctor  with  extraordinary  animation,  "  Doctor 
dear,  that  Father  Murphy's  a  very  strange  man  ; 
I'm  thinking  he's  out  of  his  mind  altogether  !  " 
"  Out  of  his  mind  !  "  exclaimed  the  doctor  ;  "  not 
at  all !    Father  Murphy  is  a  most  able  and  sensible 

man.      Why,    whatever    makes    you    think " 

"  Wait  now,  till  I  teU  you,  doctor  dear.  I  was  ask- 
ing him,  do  you  see,  about  the  Protestants,  asking 
him  what  would  happen  to  them  at  the  Judgment 
Day  ;  and  I  said,  said  I,  that  it  was  a  terrible 
lot  of  people  to  go  all  at  once  into  hell.  And  what 
think  you  he  said,  doctor  dear — this  Father  Murphy? 
Can  you  imagine  it  ?  WiU  you  beheve  it  ?  He  said 
to  me,  and  it's  God's  truth  I'm  teUing  you,  doctor, 
that  maybe  Protestants  wouldn't  go  to  hell  at  all, 
at  all,  that  many  of  them,  to  his  certain  knowledge, 
stood  just  as  fine  a  chance  of  getting  into  heaven  as 
CathoHcs  !  That's  what  he  said,  doctor.  He  said 
that.  He  did,  doctor  dear.  If  it's  the  last  word  I 
speak,  that's  what  Father  Murphy  said  to  me. 
Doctor  dear,  the  man's  mad.  To  teU  me  that, 
and  me  a  dying  man  !  I  said  to  him,  '  Father 
Murphy,'  says  I,  '  if  it  is  possible  for  Protestants  to 
go  to  heaven,  can  you  tell  me  then,  I  says,  why 


78  THE   LIFE    OF   A   TOWN 

should  I  have  been  a  Catholic  all  my  life  ?  '  Och, 
but  sure  the  man's  out  of  his  mind  !  " 

While  the  doctor  told  these  stories  he  steered 
his  motor-car  through  some  of  the  most  beautiful 
and  romantic  scenery  in  Ireland.  Our  road  lay 
far  from  the  market-town:  now  winding  with  a 
wooded  river  through  cool  and  gentle  vaUeys ;  now 
chmbing  into  heathered  hiUs,  over  sandy  moorland ; 
now  skirting  the  side  of  steadfast  lakes  dropped 
like  mirrors  on  the  earth  by  clouds  so  beautiful 
that  they  died  to  see  themselves ;  now  jolting  over 
rugged  tracks  through  fields  of  pasture  and  tillage 
to  the  creeper-covered  dweUing  of  a  farmer  or  the 
new  rate-built  cottage  of  a  labourer,  and  now  creep- 
ing quietly  along  the  scarred  and  suffering  face  of 
the  cMff,  with  the  setting  sun  flashing  a  pilgrim's 
path  of  golden  illusion  to  the  land  of  dollars. 

It  was  dehghtful  to  dismount  from  the  car,  and 
go  with  the  doctor  into  the  houses  of  the  peasants. 
One  obtained  in  this  way  memorable  gHmpses  of 
little  interiors  where  one  seemed  to  see  the  very 
soul  of  Ireland  smiling  at  the  hearth  of  Irish  life. 
The  invincible  neatness  of  these  homes — these 
humble,  human  village  shrines — their  bewitching 
cheerfulness  and  content,  the  sweetness  of  the 
people,  the  air  of  prosperity  and  simple  happiness, 
which  came  from  all  of  them,  made  not  only  a  most 
charming  impression,  but  brought  one  into  real 
and  intimate  communion  with  the  Irish  heart. 


THE    LIFE    OF   A   TOWN  79 

Nearly  every  modern  cottage  has  now  an  acre, 
or  half  an  acre,  of  land  surrounding  it,  and — 
however  plain  the  architecture,  however  relentless 
the  red  of  the  bricks — set  in  the  midst  of  this 
ample  kindly  garden  each  cottage  greets  one  with 
a  graceful  sense  of  Arcady.  One  knows  that  potatoes 
will  soon  be  thrusting  their  dull  green  leaves  and 
spreading  their  white  and  lilac-coloured  flowers 
over  the  tilled  earth;  that  the  necks  of  excited 
hens  will  soon  be  thrust  through  the  battens  of  the 
coops  wrigghng  for  sight  of  certain  wandering  balls 
of  down  on  legs  of  gelatine ;  that  orchestral  squeak- 
ings  will  mingle  from  the  sty  with  the  deeper 
gruntings  of  content  now  sleepily  audible;  that 
canary  creeper  will  be  clambering  over  the  lattice 
of  the  porch,  and  a  hum  of  bees  will  sound  above 
the  buzzings  of  summer  flies  at  the  open  cottage 
door  through  which  the  sun  will  be  slanting. 

But  it  is  the  older  cottage,  generally  set  by  the 
roadside,  the  little,  white-washed,  one-storied, 
straw-thatched  cottage  that  one  most  loves  to 
penetrate.  In  these  dim  cabins,  the  peat  seems  to 
burn  with  a  redder  glow  and  to  difEuse  a  warmer, 
richer  incense  :  the  smoky  rafters  seem  to  have 
a  visible  hospitality,  a  discernible  spirit  of  shelter 
and  protection  :  the  humble  walls,  covered  with 
pictures  of  the  Saviour  and  St.  Mary,  seem  as  if 
they  have  caught  a  sense  of  blessing  and  consecra- 
tion  from   a   hundred   years   of   family   affection. 


80  THE    LIFE    OF   A   TOWN 

And  the  cooking  utensils  look  as  if  they  have 
given  joy  on  many  a  winter  night  to  the  tired  half- 
frozen  father  returning  from  the  fields ;  the  china 
on  the  dresser  looks  as  if  it  has  been  polished  for 
centuries  by  little  maids  conscious  of  enormous 
responsibihty  and  of  intense  pride  in  the  work  of 
helping  mother ;  the  chairs  look  as  if  they  have  been 
drawn  to  the  fireside  on  a  thousand  occasions  for 
happy  gossip  and  domestic  festivities ;  and  the 
poor  old  sombre  bed  sprawling  on  the  floor  in  a  dark 
comer,  very  shapeless  and  depressed,  and  if  truth 
be  told  rather  spongy,  grimy,  and  squaHd,  looks  as 
if  the  new  souls  born  upon  it  and  the  old  souls 
parting  from  it,  generation  after  generation,  have 
touched  it  with  the  mysteries  of  birth  and  death. 

One  meets  in  these  cottages  very  old,  shrunken, 
bent-over  people,  toothless  and  inarticulate,  middle- 
aged,  disenchanted,  but  courageous  people,  and 
young  girls  so  beautiful,  so  fresh,  so  innocent,  so 
shy,  that  they  lay,  as  it  were,  an  awe  upon  the 
soul  of  a  stranger.  But  one  sees  seldom  in  these 
cottage  homes  young  men  at  the  threshold  of 
Hfe. 

What  kindness  we  received  on  our  visits  !  How 
glad  the  people  were  to  see  the  doctor  !  How 
pretty  it  was  to  watch  him  in  talk  with  wide-eyed, 
blushing  girls,  or  bending  over  the  pillow  of  some 
smiling  patriarch  !  And  when  the  dark  fell,  and  we 
were  delayed  on  the  road  with  trouble  to  our  lamps. 


THE   LIFE    OP   A   TOWN  81 

how  willingly,  and  with  what  gracious  courtesy, 
help  came  from  a  wayside  cottage  ! 

We  went  to  a  corner  of  the  coast,  where  a  thousand 
httle  isles  floated  mist-wrapt  on  moonlit  waves  that 
scarcely  seemed  to  move,  and  here  we  stood  for  a 
few  minutes  looking  towards  Cape  Clear  while  the 
doctor  recited  poetry  in  a  low  voice  and  the  car 
that  we  had  left  behind  us  purred  in  a  low  mono- 
tone to  the  innumerable  stars. 

And  then,  at  a  great  pace,  with  the  cold  wind  in 
our  teeth,  and  the  golden  ring  round  the  moon 
deepening  to  orange,  we  sped  through  silent  and 
sylvan  country  back  to  the  market-town. 

The  Bishop  had  been  obhged  to  go  away  that 
morning,  and  a  priest  was  to  come  in  and  act  host 
for  me  at  the  dinner- table.  I  found  him  waiting  for 
me,  a  short,  fat,  rigid,  high-shouldered,  low-necked, 
red-faced,  top-heavy  man,  whose  immense  and  mas- 
sive head — with  its  two  Httle  staring  brown  eyes  deep 
buried  in  hard-hammered  bone,  and  its  Httle  button 
of  a  mouth  squeezed  up  to  nothing  under  a  nose  Hke 
a  blob  of  putty — seemed  as  if  it  had  been  shaped, 
roughly  and  impatiently  shaped,  out  of  granite  by 
some  Titan  sick  of  Grecian  prettiness.  I  never  saw 
head  so  soHd,  dense,  thick,  and  neckless  on  the 
squared,  high  shoulders  of  a  body  so  brief  and  rigid. 

Now  I  must  tell  you  that  every  Cathohc  bishop 
who  entertained  me  provided  in  my  honour  Gar- 
gantuan  meals    and  battalions  of  bottles.     Poor, 


82  THE   LIFE    OF   A   TOWN 

humble,  and  simple  in  their  habits,  these  warm- 
hearted people  deHght  to  load  and  overload  their 
tables  for  the  entertainment  of  a  stranger. 

So  it  came  about  that  when  the  door  opened  and 
the  housekeeper,  having  removed  an  excellent 
soup,  came  in  with  a  great  dish  of  smoking  beef, 
then  with  a  fizzling  pair  of  roast  chickens,  then 
with  a  steaming  roll  of  boiled  bacon,  then  with 
potatoes  in  their  jackets,  cabbages  cooked  to  a 
turn,  onions  that  filled  the  fireht  room  with  the 
rich  and  genial  odours  of  a  kitchen,  and  finally 
with  a  bottle  of  champagne  that  looked  as  if  it  had 
been  corked  and  labelled  only  that  very  morning — 
it  came  about,  I  repeat,  that  my  little,  fat,  high- 
shouldered  host,  whose  eyes  had  been  gradually 
blazing,  whose  Httle  round  Hps  were  Uterally  smack- 
ing with  deHght,  and  who  seemed,  indeed,  as  he  put 
a  terrific  edge  upon  a  mighty  knife,  as  if  he  were 
snorting  and  pawing  the  ground  to  be  off,  was 
swept  to  a  very  zenith  of  stupefaction. 

It  was,  I  think,  the  appearance  of  the  bottle 
of  champagne,  brought  so  calmly  to  the  table  by 
the  pale  and  perspiring  housekeeper,  that  blew  him 
finally  clean  into  the  empyrean. 

He  sat  suddenly  bolt  upright,  knife  and  sharpener 
paralysed  in  mid-air,  raised  his  huge  head,  regarded 
the  housekeeper  with  an  absolute  increduUty,  and 
demanded  :  "  What  !  Champagne  !  Julia,  are 
we  to  have  champagne  ?  " 


THE   LIFE   OF   A   TOWN  83 

"  Yes,  Father ;  his  lordship  said  so  ;  and — ^the 
liqueurs  as  well." 

His  shoulders  went  with  a  great  thump  against 
the  back  of  his  chair.  Then,  coming  to  himself, 
he  exclaimed  with  a  most  fervent  gratitude,  a 
most  genuine  piety,  his  extraordinary  face  almost 
rigid  with  solemnity  :   "  Glory  be  to  God  !  " 

At  the  next  moment  carving-fork  and  carving- 
knife  were  plunged  into  the  ribs  of  beef,  and  my 
host  was  pufiing  and  blowing  at  his  work  in  a 
manner  that  made  conversation  seem  a  trivial, 
foohsh  thing. 


CHAPTER  IV 
TESTIMONIES 

I  WAS  talking  one  day  to  a  brisk  and  voluble 
woman  of  business  who  entertains  the  very- 
clearest  notions  on  the  religious  question.  She  spoke 
to  me  with  a  whispering  suggestion  of  mystery,  now 
tapping  my  arm,  or  affectionately  fingering  one  of 
my  coat  buttons,  and  now  stepping  back  to  regard 
the  effect  of  her  words  on  my  sympathetic  face. 
Occasionally  she  almost  threw  herself  upon  my 
bosom  in  the  excess  of  her  confidence,  or  in  the 
exuberance  of  her  matchless  verbosity  ;  and  occa- 
sionally she  caught  my  forearm  to  support  herself 
in  a  nip  of  laughter.  A  tubby,  fat,  elderly  lady, 
shrewd  and  capable,  famous  for  the  success  of  a 
rather  unique  estabHshment. 

"  Och,  sure,  there's  bigotry  in  the  north  of 
Ireland,"  she  told  me,  "  but  it  isn't  rehgious  bigotry 
at  aU.  Look,  sir,  I'll  teU  you  what  it  is  ;  'tis  just 
black-hearted  bigotry.  Thim  Protestants  have 
any  God's  quantity  of  money,  and  they  dispise 
thim  that  haven't  it.  'Tis  that,  sir,  and  'tis  nothing 
more.     Och,   they're   terrible  !     Look,   sir  ! — they 

84 


TESTIMONIES  85 

wouldn't  spit  on  you,  if  you'll  pardon  the  expression, 
even  if  you  was  on  fire  ;  no,  they  wouldn't.  Och, 
they're  a  dirty,  proud,  black-hearted  lot ;  and  it's 
God's  truth  I'm  telling  you  ;  och,  but  it's  terrible. 
You  ought  to  see  thim  Protestants,  so  you  did, 
driving  with  their  motor-cars  into  the  big  towns, 
making  a  kick-up  and  all,  and  staring  at  poor  folks, 
my  dear  darling  sir,  with  such  a  look  as  they'd 
be  sorry  to  die  with.  And  how  do  they  do  it  ? 
Och,  sure,  they  couldn't  do  it  all  if  it  wasn't  for 
paying  the  people  who  works  for  thim  the  wages 
of  poverty.  Ten  shiUings  a  week !  HaK  a  crown  for 
girls  !  Och,  but  it's  terrible.  Glory  be  to  God, 
but  that's  true.  Me  own  husband,  sir — he'll  soon 
be  eight  months  dead,  poor  man — how  did  they 
treat  him  then  ?  Och,  'tis  the  devil's  own  shame. 
Sure,  sir,  they  came  to  me,  his  poor  widow,  and 
him  hardly  cold  in  his  coffin,  and  demanded  six 
hundred  pounds  of  repairs  on  the  house  if  I  wanted 
to  go  on  with  the  lease.  It  was  that,  sir,  or  I  had 
to  go  into  the  streets  without  a  house  to  me  head. 
And  what  sort  of  property  do  they  own  ?  Och, 
'tis  nothing  but  dirty  slums  with  a  smell  to  'em, 
my  dear  darhng  sir,  that  would  scratch  the  very 
bottom  of  a  decent  stomach,  yes,  it  would.  Me 
own  sister's  son,  sir,  look  at  him  then.  He  caught 
diphtheria  in  a  tramcar  from  a  man  they  caU  Shamus 
Dwyer,  who  was  just  out  of  hospital ;  and  he  was 
in  hospital,  me  poor  nephew  was,  for  six  weeks; 


86  TESTIMONIES 

and  when  he  came  out  of  hospital,  look  you,  sir,  he 
passed  a  boy  they  call  WiUiam  McGifferty,  and  he 
caught  the  scarlet  fever  from  him.  Now,  in  the 
name  of  God,  is  that  rehgion,  then  ?  Whist, 
there's  no  rehgion  about  it  at  aU.  Look,  sir,  I 
know  one  of  thim  Protestant  famihes  in  the  North, 
great  folks,  and  I'll  tell  you  what  I've  seen  in  their 
house  with  me  own  eyes  as  God  is  my  Judge. 
There's  a  picture  in  the  Hbrary,  just  at  the  side  of 
the  door  as  you  go  in,  and  'tis  a  priest,  sir,  in  his 
full  vestments  as  I'm  a  living  woman,  saying  the 
Mass  !  It's  there  to  this  day,  sir.  Look  at  that 
now.  It's  God's  truth  I'm  teUing  you.  Och,  but  it's 
terrible.  And  phwat  do  you  think  of  this?  One 
of  their  ladies,  sir — such  a  poor  and  meagre  soul 
ye  niver  saw  since  God  made  ye,  and  dressed  up 
with  her  silk  stockings  that  cost  a  fortune,  and 
shoes  and  petticoats  the  saints  would  have  blushed 
to  see,  a  kind  of  a  dandy  woman,  and  ugly,  my 
dear  darling  sir,  you  never  saw  an  ugHer,  flat- 
chested,  yellow-faced  old  harridan  in  your  born 
days  ;  och,  terrible  !  told  me,  sir,  she  told  me  her 
very  self  as  true  as  I'm  a  living  woman  that  she 
was  only  waiting  for  her  husband  to  die  to  have 
a  real  grand  time  of  it — look  at  that  now  !  You  must 
excuse  me  laughing !  Och,  'twould  have  spHt 
a  herring  to  hear  of  it !  When  her  husband  died, 
sir,  the  money  was  tied  up  as  tight  as  a  whelk  ! 
She  was  worse  off  than  when  he  was  a  Hving  man  ! 


TESTIMONIES  87 

Och,  you  should  have  seen  her  weeds,  they  was 
shameful  for  a  virtuous  woman. 

"  They  talk  of  rehgion,  but,  my  dear  sir,  the 
North's  fuU  of  Home  Rule.  Faith,  but  it's  the 
same  aU  the  world  over.  Och,  sure  !  You  can't 
live  in  the  country  and  not  see  the  need  of  it. 
Thim  Protestants  are  a  hard  people.  Grasping 
people,  they  are.  Faith,  they'd  squeeze  the  blood 
out  of  a  brick.  And  the  pride  of  thim,  the  sinful 
pride  !  Maybe  you  saw  it  in  the  paper  and  maybe 
you  didn't,  but  in  one  of  the  Ulster  towns,  just  a 
little  time  ago,  the  Catholics  made  a  J.P.  of  a  bill- 
poster !  Och,  you  nivir  heard  such  a  cry-out  ! 
I  think  his  name  was  Jerry  O'Meara — a  decent, 
honest,  well-hked  sort  of  a  fellow,  but  going  round 
with  his  paste-pot  and  brush.  The  Resident  Magis- 
trate was  a  Protestant  colonel,  and  one  day  he  was 
sentencing  a  man  for  being  drunk,  when  a  Httle 
meek  voice  says  at  the  side  of  him,  '  I  object  to  the 
sintince,  it's  too  hard  for  the  oflfince.'  He  was  a 
very  fierce-looking  man,  the  magistrate,  and  he 
wore  a  glass  that  made  him  worse  than  he  was, 
and  he  turns  round  of  a  sudden,  and  he  scowls  Hke 
the  very  divil  himself,  'And  who  are  you  ?  '  he  asks 
in  a  voice  of  thunder.  And  thin,  smiling  like  a 
cherub,  and  speaking  as  meek  as  a  lamb,  Jerry 
says,  '  A'm  O'Meara,  the  Jah  Pee  !  '  Faith,  sir, 
the  whole  court  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter  and 
the  poor  magistrate  dropped  his  glass  and  looked  as 


88  TESTIMONIES 

poor  as  a  piece  of  bread  on  the  end  of  a  toasting- 
fork. 

"  Och,  but  there's  good  men  among  the  Protes- 
tants. I'm  not  saying  they're  all  given  to  the 
divil ;  not  at  all.  Look,  sir,  there's  one  or  two  of 
the  sort  up  in  County  Derry  who  might  have  been  sent 
by  Heaven  to  help  poor  people.  Good  landlords, 
good  Christian  people.  But  why  is  it  ?  Faith,  sir, 
they  know  there's  a  God  above  thim.  That's  how 
it  is.  And  if  they're  not  for  Home  Rule,  they're  not 
very  far  off  of  it,  and  you'U  nivir  hear  of  thim  saying 
cruel  things  of  the  poor  CathoHcs,  and  you'll 
nivir  hear  of  thim  oppressing  any  human  creature 
on  the  earth,  Protestant  or  Catholic. 

"  I  say  this,  sir,  Why  can't  people  leave  other 
people  alone  ?  Why  should  they  always  be  wanting 
to  interfere  ?  Faith,  a  man's  religion  is  born  with 
him,  and  he  can't  help  himself.  And  it  isn't  what 
a  man  says  he  beHeves  that  makes  a  pennyworth 
of  difference  ;  it's  just  how  he  Hves.  Do  you  think 
God  spends  all  His  time  Hstening  to  the  arguments 
of  the  Protestants.  Not  at  all !  Not  at  all !  Sure, 
God  Almighty  doesn't  care  what  we  think  ;  it's  the 
heart  of  a  man  He'd  have  clean  and  sweet ;  and 
I  say  a  CathoHc  may  have  a  bad  heart  and  a  Protes- 
tant may  have  a  good  heart,  and  it's  helping  people, 
being  kind  to  people,  that  gets  a  soul  into  heaven 
when  all's  said  and  done.  So  why  do  they  always 
go  arguing  and  sniffing  at  poor  Catholics  ?     Isn't 


TESTIMONIES  89 

it  enough  for  thim  that  they've  got  the  blood- 
money  out  of  working  people,  and  ride  in  their 
motor-cars,  and  go  to  a  town  I  know  very  well, 
which  'tis  nothing  more  than  a  bad  place,  a  kind 
of  a  rendezvous,  you  understand  me — och,  'tis 
a  terrible  place.  Wouldn't  it  be  better,  my  dear 
darhng  sir,  if  we  had  Home  Rule,  and  a  Httle 
peace  and  quiet,  and  aU  set  about  helping  those  that 
are  poor  and  in  the  want  of  things  ?  That's  how 
I  look  at  it.  And  as  for  reUgious  bigotry,  sure,  sir, 
I  teU  ye,  there's  no  such  thing  ;  'tis  nothing  more 
than  a  proud  stomach." 

A  less  impassioned  and  perhaps  a  more  informing 
presentation  of  this  great  matter  was  offered  to  me 
by  a  Protestant  man  of  business  in  a  pretty  con- 
siderable town  of  the  south  of  Ireland — such  a 
town  as  the  lady  above  would  surely  call  "  a  kind 
of  a  rendezvous." 

He  is  a  man  some  sixty  years  of  age,  a  spare, 
Hthe,  grey-headed  figure,  lean-faced,  grey-eyed, 
grey-bearded,  the  colour  of  his  skin  a  tinge  of  grey, 
the  note  of  the  whole  man  vigorous,  alert,  trench- 
ant. AU  his  life  he  has  Hved  in  Ireland,  and  all 
his  Hfe  he  has  avoided  poUtics.  He  is  first  and 
foremost  a  successful,  keen,  ambitious,  and  enter- 
prising man  of  business. 

He  laughed  away  the  suggestion  that  under 
Home  Rule  Ireland  would  become  a  difficult  country 
for  Protestants. 


90  TESTIMONIES 

"  I  assure  you,"  he  told  me,  "  the  Catholics  of 
Ireland  are  the  kindest-hearted  and  the  pleasantest 
people  in  the  world.  I  prefer  them  infinitely, 
infinitely,  to  the  people  of  my  own  rehgion.  In 
fact,  so  narrow,  and  bigoted,  and  poUtical  are  the 
Protestants  of  this  town  that  I  now  very  seldom 
go  to  church  ;  I  find  myself  every  year  more  and 
more  drawn  towards  the  Catholics.  I  have  often 
thought  that  I  am  in  danger  of  seceding.  But 
like  a  great  many  other  people  here,  I'm  drawn  to 
Catholics  and  repelled  by  CathoHc  dogma.  I  like 
Catholics  immensely,  but  I  cannot  bring  myself 
to  swaUow  what  they  teach.  As  for  CathoHc 
intolerance — that  is  the  purest  moonshine.  I  do 
not  know  anything  that  more  disgusts  me  with 
our  Protestants  than  their  shameful  use  of  this 
detestable  invention.  There  is  excuse  for  you  in 
England,  but  none  for  Protestants  in  Ireland.  You 
in  England  might  imagine  the  Catholics  would  try 
to  pay  off  old  scores  under  Home  Rule,  but  the 
Protestants  here  know  perfectly  well  that  the 
Cathohcs  are  far  more  charitable,  far  more  tolerant, 
far  more  courteous  and  weU-behaved  than  them- 
selves. When  they  talk  about  CathoHc  intolerance 
they  say  what  they  know  to  be  untrue.  I  don't 
know  how  theologians  would  classify  such  state- 
ments, but  in  business  we  should  caU  them  Hes. 

"  The  truth  is,  our  Protestant  clergy  are  very 
second-rate  people,  they  are  reaUy  the  fools  of  the 


TESTIMONIES  91 

family ;  not  having  any  solid  depth  of  character 
and  precious  little  genuine  enthusiasm  for  the  Ufe, 
they  turn  themselves  into  theologians,  make  them- 
selves the  violent  pamphleteers  of  a  fighting  Protes- 
tantism. It  sickens  me,  really  sickens  me,  to  go  to 
church  on  Sunday  and  hear  a  sermon  preached, 
not  about  the  Life,  but  about  the  dogmas  of  Rome. 
That  is  what  our  sermons  are,  a  perpetual  attack 
on  Roman  dogma.  It  gives  rehgion  the  narrow 
and  un-Christhke  spirit  of  party  poKtics.  How 
people  stay  for  Communion  after  hstening  to 
these  frothy,  scornful,  and  embittered  diatribes 
I  cannot  think  ;  for  myself,  I  come  out  of  church 
in  a  thoroughly  disgusted  spirit. 

"  Some  time  ago  a  friend  of  mine  was  taken  very 
iU  and  had  to  keep  his  bed.  He  was  a  Protestant, 
and  a  man  of  some  importance.  The  rector  of  the 
parish  called  to  see  him.  The  first  utterance  of 
the  reverend  gentleman  was  an  angry  exclamation 
at  sight  of  a  picture  on  the  bedroom  wall.  '  What ! ' 
said  he  ;  *  you  have  got  a  picture  of  a  priest  up 
here  ! '  '  Not  a  priest,'  said  the  invahd,  '  but  a 
Christian  brother.'  '  Humph !  you  must  be  very 
fond  of  him,  he  must  be  a  very  great  friend,  to  have 
his  picture  in  your  bedroom.'  '  Yes,'  said  the  other, 
*  he  was  a  very  great  friend  of  mine,  but  it  isn't 
for  that  reason  I  keep  his  picture  in  my  room  ; 
it  is  because  he  was  the  truest,  noblest,  simplest, 
and  purest  Christian  I  have  ever  known,  and  I 


92  TESTIMONIES 

like  to  see  his  face,  like  to  think  about  his  life,  the 
last  thing  at  night  and  the  first  thing  in  the  morning.' 
This  Christian  brother,  I  must  tell  you,  was  the 
famous  Brother  Burke  ;  the  holy  and  beautiful 
old  man  who  introduced  science  and  technical  instruc- 
tion into  schools  long  before  anybody  else,  and 
who  made  the  North  Monastery  in  Cork  one  of  the 
most  famous  schools  in  Europe.  People  came  from 
all  over  the  world  to  see  his  museum,  his  laboratory, 
and  his  technical  rooms.  And  the  poor  worshipped 
him  ;  they  adored  him.  His  funeral  in  Cork  was 
like  a  king's.  Every  shop  was  closed.  A  multitude 
followed  the  hearse.  Women  and  children  from 
the  slums  cried  as  the  procession  passed. 

"  And  yet  that  rector  regarded  it  as  a  sin  that 
the  photograph  of  such  a  man — a>  man  who  Uved 
the  life  of  a  Saint  Francis,  who  so  humbly,  modestly, 
beautifully,  and  tenderly  followed  in  the  footsteps 
of  his  Master — should  hang  in  a  Protestant  bedroom  ! 
That  wiU  give  you  some  idea  of  the  dismal  abyss 
of  Protestantism  in  the  south  of  Ireland. 

"  BeHeve  me,  it  is  Protestants  and  only  Protes- 
tants who  make  reHgion  a  part  of  poUtics.  CathoUcs 
have  no  warmer  welcome  than  for  a  Protestant 
who  shares  the  national  aspiration  for  Home  Eule. 
I  know  myself  the  Protestant  manager  of  a  big  shop 
in  Cork,  one  of  the  biggest  shops  in  the  town, 
who  gives  up  his  private  room  to  a  Catholic  bishop 
from  the  country  when  that  gentleman  visits  the 


TESTIMONIES  93 

town  and  wants  to  see  people  on  business.  The 
bishop  walks  into  the  room  with  a  smile,  and  says, 
'  Now,  my  friend,  out  you  go  :  no  more  pounds, 
shiUings,  and  pence  :  I  want  your  room  for  the 
souls  of  people  '  ;  and  the  manager  laughs  and  goes. 
He  tells  me  that  the  bishop  makes  him  reaHze  the 
force  of  the  Christian  Hfe  more  than  any  of  his  own 
clergy,  who  only  come  to  see  him  when  they  want 
subscriptions. 

"  Cork,  by  the  way,  is  a  town  you  ought  to  see. 
The  principal  street,  and  a  very  handsome  one  too, 
Patrick  Street,  contains  hardly  a  single  CathoHc 
shop.  The  Protestants,  who  are  in  an  absolute 
minority,  long  ago  collared  all  the  best  sites  and 
laid  the  foundation  of  their  trade  ;  and  their  pros- 
perity depends  absolutely  upon  the  custom  of 
Catholics.  There  is  not  a  Prostestant  in  Cork 
who  can  deny  that  fact.  The  custom  of  Protestants 
would  not  pay  the  rents  of  those  shops.  Now  is  it 
not  monstrous,  with  demonstrations  of  this  kind 
before  their  eyes,  not  merely  staring  them  in  the  face, 
but  interwoven  into  the  very  commerce  of  their  daily 
hves,  is  it  not  monstrous  for  Protestants  to  talk 
about  Catholic  intolerance  ? 

"  No  ;  the  cry  of  intolerance  is  a  sham,  and  a 
very  mean  sham  at  that. 

"  I  will  tell  you  something  more.  In  family 
life  the  CathoHcs  are  superior  to  the  Protestants. 
The  purity  of  their  women  is  extraordinary.    I  am 


94  TESTIMONIES 

convinced  that  Catholicism  is  essential  to  morals 
in  Ireland.  I  should  look  with  horror  on  any  decay 
of  Catholic  power.  And  I  wiU  teU  you  why  I  say 
that.  We  see  in  towns  like  this  the  return  of  a  good 
many  Irish  emigrants.  They  come  back  with  fine 
clothes,  pretentious  manners,  a  sort  of  drawling 
contempt  for  their  own  people,  and  with  no  rigid 
sense  of  purity.  America  gives  them  money  with 
one  hand,  and  takes  away  their  moral  code  with  the 
other.  Of  course  there  are  exceptions.  But  what 
I  teU  you  is  strictly  true  of  the  average  emigrant. 
And  this  is  the  proof  of  it.  Precious  few  emigrants, 
however  well  off,  remain  in  the  country.  They  take 
a  look  round,  leave  a  httle  money  behind  them,  and 
go  back  to  the  States.  Ireland  is  too  dull.  Why  is 
it  too  dull  ?  Because  the  women  are  pure,  because 
the  home  is  the  centre  of  the  national  Hfe,  and 
because  rehgion  exercises  a  real  authority.  For  a 
man  with  no  moral  code,  Ireland  is  the  dullest 
country  in  the  world  ;  for  a  man  who  beheves  in 
God,  it  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful. 

"  This  is  a  strange  thing,  which  has  often  puzzled 
me  :  in  works  of  philanthropy,  in  organized  charity, 
the  Cathohcs  are  far  behind  us,  so  far  indeed  that 
one  might  almost  say  they  are  indifferent  to  the 
matter.  On  the  other  hand,  the  Protestants  think 
of  hardly  anything  else.  It  is  not  only  the  spirit 
of  their  rehgion,  but  a  part  of  theii  propaganda. 
Examine  the  accounts  of  our  Protestant  parishes 


TESTIMONIES  95 

and  you  would  think  they  were  nothing  else  but  the 
scenes  of  benevolent  activity,  you  would  think  that 
Protestantism  was  a  Hving  and  victorious  faith, 
that  CathoHcism  was  exhausted  and  dying.  And  yet. 
Protestantism  is  waning  in  Ireland.  You  never 
hear  of  CathoHcs  becoming  Protestants,  but  you  do 
hear,  and  fairly  frequently  too,  of  Protestants 
becoming  CathoHcs.  I've  told  you  that  I  myself 
should  turn  CathoHc  but  for  the  impossible  dogmas 
that  drive  me  out  of  the  idea.  In  spite  of  aU  the 
philanthropy  of  the  Protestants  and  in  spite  of 
all  the  vigour  and  energy  of  their  charities,  I  would 
become  a  CathoHc  to-morrow  if  it  were  not  for 
dogmas  that  repel  me.  And  why  is  that  ?  Because 
no  man  can  Hve  in  Ireland  without  feeHng  that 
Catholics — whatever  they  beUeve  intellectually — 
are  nearer  to  the  Hfe  of  Christ,  while  Protestants — 
however  ardent  their  philanthropic  activity — have 
failed  to  win  the  spirit  of  their  Master.  Protestant 
as  I  am  in  my  intellect,  I  should  regard  it  as  the 
very  greatest  disaster  that  could  overtake  this 
nation  were  it  to  become  Protestant.  And  much  as 
I  should  regret  from  an  intellectual  point  of  view 
the  total  conversion  of  Irish  Protestants  to  the 
Cathohc  rehgion,  still  I  should  not  be  able  to  deny 
the  conviction  that  such  a  revolution  would  make  for 
the  moral  grandeur  and  the  sweeter  manners  of  the 
nation. 

"  It  wiU  give  you  an  idea  of  Protestant  intoler- 


96  TESTIMONIES 

ance  when  I  tell  you,  a  man  in  my  position,  that 
I  dare  not,  dare  not,  from  a  business  point  of  view, 
declare  myself  a  Home  Ruler.'  If  I  did  so  I  should 
certainly  lose  three-fourths  of  my  Protestant 
cHents.  The  Catholics  come  to  me,  knowing  that 
I  am  a  Protestant,  and  ignorant  that  I  give  my  vote 
at  every  election  for  Home  Rule.  Now,  does  not 
this  alone  convince  you  that  bigotry  and  intolerance 
are  on  the  side  of    Protestants  ?  " 

He  told  me  that  very  often  he  spends  his  hoHdays 
in  bicycHng  through  the  west  of  Ireland,  and  that 
every  experience  of  this  kind  deepens  in  his  mind  the 
sense  of  that  beauty  and  purity  of  Irish  life  which 
must  certainly  strike  the  mind  of  every  intelligent 
visitor  from  England.  "  I  have  been,"  he  said, 
"  in  tiny  hovels  where  the  only  decency  in  the  sleep- 
ing arrangements  was  a  pile  of  old  biscuit  tins 
between  the  beds  of  parents  and  children,  of  big 
boys  and  big  girls  ;  and  those  people,  I  assure  you, 
are  more  nice  in  their  virtue,  more  exquisite  in  their 
chastity,  than  many  better  educated  people  with 
every  advantage  that  wealth  confers.  It  is  this 
kind  of  thing  which  has  made  so  deep  an  impression 
on  my  mind.  It  is  unavoidable,  and  it  is,  at  least 
I  find  it  so,  extraordinarily  persuasive.  The  Catho- 
lics have  the  secret  of  the  moral  Hfe." 

It  was  my  pleasure  to  have  a  conversation  on  this 
subject  with  Mr.  WiUiam  O'Brien,  no  great  lover 
just  now  of  the  Irish  priesthood. 


TESTIMONIES  97 

Mr.  O'Brien  has  something  of  the  aspect  of  a 
prophet.  His  hair  is  long,  his  moustache  and  beard, 
I  imagine,  do  not  go  often  to  the  barber,  and  he  is 
a  little  unorthodox  in  the  matter  of  raiment. 

You  are  tempted  to  think,  while  he  is  talking, 
that  the  man  is  one  of  the  most  genial,  tolerant, 
and  good-humoured  enthusiasts  that  ever  lived. 
The  low  voice  is  cordial  and  placating,  the  broad, 
heavy-featured,  pale  face  is  wrinkled  into  a  smile 
that  seems  to  have  grown  there  from  infancy, 
waxing  sweeter  and  wider  in  its  charity  with  the 
greying  of  his  hair  ;  behind  their  spectacles  his 
little  twinkhng  eyes  under  their  twitching  long- 
haired brows  overflow  with  the  philanthropy  and 
urbanity  of  a  citizen  of  the  world.  No  man  could  be 
nicer  for  a  tea-party. 

But  with  the  last  full-stop  of  his  talking,  instan- 
taneously, just  as  if  a  string  had  been  suddenly 
jerked  from  inside,  the  smile  sweeps  from  the  face, 
the  features  become  set,  the  eyebrows  stand  rigid 
over  eyes  that  have  become  hard  as  steel,  the  cor- 
dial waving  hands  fall  to  a  grip  on  the  knees,  he 
regards  you  with  a  fixed  stare  that  is  inhuman, 
and  with  Httle  impatient  noises  in  the  throat  he  sits 
Hke  a  statue,  cold  and  motionless  as  stone,  not  so 
much  hearing  what  you  have  to  say,  as  obviously 
waiting  to  spring  off  with  something  fresh  of  his 
own.  In  these  moments,  in  these  brief  pauses 
between  the  cascade  of  his  smihng,  tolerant,  and 


98  TESTIMONIES 

philanthropic  eloquence,  you  realize  that  the  man 
is  a  true  fanatic — if  he  will  forgive  me  for  saying  so, 
a  veritable  Mad  Mullah  of  Irish  poHtics. 

The  reader  must  imagine  in  what  foUows  that 
"  William "  is  sitting  poHtely  on  the  edge  of  a 
little  chair,  leaning  towards  his  visitor,  speaking 
in  a  low  and  pleasant  voice  at  great  speed,  with 
little  hurrying  gasps  between  the  sentences,  smiling 
cherubically,  now  spreading  his  nice  white  hands 
in  the  air,  like  a  conjurer,  and  now  rubbing  them 
softly  and  purringly  together  as  though  he  were 
giving  everybody  in  the  world  £500  a  year  and  was 
explaining  how  he  has  just  concluded  a  most  ad- 
mirable contract  for  the  refreshment  tent  in  a  mil- 
lennial Paradise  to  be  opened  by  himself  at  three 
o'clock  this  very  afternoon. 

He  gives  one  no  impression  of  a  man  fighting 
against  most  desperate  odds,  but  rather  of  a  man 
riding  on  the  crest  of  a  surdit  wave.  You  would  never 
think  that  he  has  burned  his  boats,  is  in  arms 
against  a  soHd  phalanx  of  his  former  friends,  that 
he  is  in  danger,  perhaps  imminent  danger,  of  over- 
whelming disaster. 

"  I  deplore  disunion  wherever  it  occurs,"  he 
declaims  ;  "  disunion  in  social  life,  in  family  Hfe, 
in  rehgion,  in  poHtics.  Differences  must  always  exist, 
but  where  those  differences  make  for  strife  they 
are  terrible,  they  should  be  removed.  And  I  beheve 
in  a  peaceable  settlement  of  every  difficulty  in  the 


TESTIMONIES  99 

world.  I  want  peace  to  sweeten  existence  as  well 
as  to  heal  old  wounds.  I  am  an  evolutionist  in 
politics  ;  I  don't  believe  in  keeping  up  old  feuds 
and  old  hostilities  ;  I  beHeve  in  growing  away  from 
the  past  into  something  better.  No  one  can  say 
that  I  have  not  fought  for  the  cause.  I  have  fought 
and  agitated  with  all  my  might.  I  have  been  in 
battles  where  we  routed  the  enemy  horse,  foot, 
and  artillery,  in  others  where  our  forces  were 
smashed  into  dust.  In  those  days  fighting  was 
necessary.  I  remember  very  well  when  King 
Edward  came  to  Ireland  as  Prince  of  Wales.  The  first 
row  he  ever  saw  in  his  Ufe  was  here  in  Cork.  We 
organized  it  on  purpose.  We  wanted  to  show  him 
our  real  feelings.  We  paid  him  the  comphment  of 
truth.  There  was  such  a  shindy  at  the  railway 
station  that  some  of  his  friends  wanted  him  to  go 
back  ;  it  was,  as  I  have  told  you,  the  very  first  row 
he  had  ever  seen.  But  although  he  turned  white 
and  looked  scared  to  death,  he  came  bravely  through 
the  howhng  crowds  at  the  station,  and  entered  a 
carriage.  What  did  he  find  ?  A  complete  absence 
of  crowds  in  the  streets  ;  a  frightful  silence  through- 
out the  whole  city  ;  and  all  the  windows  draped  in 
black.  His  procession  was  Hke  a  funeral.  An  old 
woman  came  from  a  court  entry  and  hurled  a  potato 
at  him — marvellous  to  relate,  it  hit  him.  That  was 
the  only  incident.  For  the  rest  it  was  silence, 
emptiness,  death — a  city  in  mourning.     Well,  we 


100  TESTIMONIES 

converted  him  !  Yes,  I  am  told  that  Cork  converted 
him.  He  went  back  to  England  convinced  that  the 
Irish  people  were  sincere  in  their  cry  for  freedom, 
and  ever  after  he  was  a  loyal  friend  of  Home  Rule. 

"  But  days  for  that  kind  of  thing  have  passed.  Old 
methods  give  way  to  new  methods.  You  would 
not  send  soldiers  armed  with  bows  and  arrows  to 
engage  an  enemy  armed  with  rifles.  My  dear  friends 
of  former  days  apparently  want  to  go  on  in  the  old 
way ;  they  beheve  in  the  draped  windows,  the 
mourning,  and  the  hurled  potato.  Now,  I  don't 
agree  with  them  at  aU.  I  beheve  in  drawing  aU 
classes  together,  in  offering  the  warmest  friendship 
to  those  moving  in  our  direction.  I  think  that  Lord 
Dunraven  has  acted  magnificently  ;  I  think  the 
party  ought  to  have  given  him  their  very  heartiest 
gratitude.  Why  stand  aloof  ?  Why  keep  up  the 
old  estrangements  ?  Why  insist  on  the  very  letter 
of  your  demand  ?  Why  not  try  conciHation,  a 
seeking  of  agreement,  a  give  and  take,  an  amicable 
undertaking  ?  I  am  persuaded  that  if  the  Nation- 
aUsts  took  up  this  position  we  should  soon  have 
the  whole  country  puUing  together,  and  both  parties 
in  England  agreed  about  Home  Rule. 

"  The  rehgious  question  is  a  manufactured  one. 
It  is  deplorable  and  disgraceful.  I  am  simply 
amazed  by  Edward  Carson's  obscurantism.  He  is 
a  man  who  despises  more  heartily  than  anybody 
else  in  the  House  of  Commons  Tory  ignorance  of 


TESTIMONIES  101 

Ireland  ;  and  yet  he  takes  up  this  shameful  cry, 
apparently  he  believes  in  it,  and  he  stands  out 
against  a  rational  government.  I  cannot  under- 
stand it.  Amazing,  amazing  !  Edward  Carson  is 
a  very  intelligent  man,  He  is  not  a  genuine  bigot. 
I  believe  he  is  absolutely  honest,  and  I  know  very 
v^ell  that  he  has  a  most  thorough  contempt  for  the 
English  Tory's  ignorance  of  Ireland.  Is  it  not  a 
most  amazing  position  ? 

"  But,  you  know,  reHgious  intolerance  is  the  ruin 
of  the  North.  They  have  splendid  quaHties  up  there, 
they  develop  some  very  fine  sides  of  human  charac- 
ter, but  they  are  lacking  in  charm,  in  sweetness 
and  Hght,  in  universaUty.  Their  narrowness  and 
rigidity  is  most  distressing — oh,  most  distressing  ! 
In  the  south  of  Ireland  it  is  different.  We  lack 
a  great  many  of  their  quaUties,  to  our  considerable 
loss,  but  we  are  more  civHized,  we  are  nicer  people 
to  hve  with,  the  least  of  our  peasants  has  a  touch 
of  the  grand  manner  in  comparison  with  those 
insensate  bigots  of  the  North. 

"  You  ask  me  about  the  priests.  WeU,  to  begin 
with,  they  are  very  bad  poHticians.  Some  of  them 
are  just  awakening  to  that  fact.  We  are  teaching 
them  the  lesson  here  in  Cork.  They  went  against 
me,  soUd  ;  but  the  people  would  take  no  ruling 
from  them.  I  heard  of  one  poor  woman  here  who 
told  a  priest  to  his  face  that  he  was  very  good  for 
her  soul,  but  no  use  at  aU  for  her  politics.     Oh, 


102  TESTIMONIES 

the  priests  have  immense  power  ;  but  only  in  the 
moral  sphere  is  that  power  unquestioned.  It  has 
always  been  questioned,  and  very  often  openly 
withstood,  in  poUtics  ;  but  never  in  morals.  They 
are  the  very  finest  shepherds  in  the  world,  but  some- 
times precious  bad  pohticians — oh,  very  bad  ! 

"  You  must  know  that  the  rock  of  the  Church  in 
Ireland  is  the  chastity  of  the  priests.  The  Church 
would  go  to  pieces  to-morrow  if  the  priests  were 
Immoral.  There  is  one  thing  the  Irish  people,  gifted 
with  great  imagination  as  they  are,  cannot  under- 
stand— and  that  is  an  immoral  priest.  In  the 
whole  course  of  my  long  Ufe  I  have  only  known  of 
two  cases  of  impurity  among  Irish  priests — only 
two.  And  if  those  cases  had  not  been  summarily 
dealt  with  the  whole  country  would  have  been  in 
arms.  No  ;  they  are  a  very  wonderful  body  of  men. 
I  do  not  think  there  is  a  more  honest  priesthood 
in  Christendom.  They  have  faiHngs.  Some  of 
them  are  rather  ignorant,  and  rather  lazy,  and 
there  is  perhaps  more  drinking  among  some  of 
them  than  is  altogether  good.  But  the  Irish  people, 
the  most  virtuous,  can  understand  and  forgive  a 
priest  who  tipples.  The  worst  could  not  forgive 
an  immoral  priest.  You  hear  them  say,  *  Och,  the 
poor  Father,  sure  if  he  does  take  a  drop  too  much 
now  and  again,  isn't  it  a  lonely  Hfe  the  poor  man 
lives,  with  no  wife,  and  no  children,  and  him  so  far 
away  from  learned  folk  ?  dreary's  the  day  for  him. 


TESTIMONIES  103 

and  God  knows  it.'  The  Irish  peasant  is  more 
subtle  than  the  EngKsh  in  his  distinctions.  He 
lays  much  more  importance  on  qualities  of  the 
spirit  than  on  abstinence  from  merely  selfish 
or  really  dangerous  habits.  But  chastity  for  them 
is  the  very  bed-rock  of  aU  spiritual  quahties.  They 
cannot  imagine  how  an  immoral  priest  can  possibly 
be  sincere. 

"  People  who  do  not  live  in  Ireland  find  it  very 
difiicult  to  understand  the  Cathohcism  of  the  Irish 
nation.  It  is  different  from  the  Catholicism  of 
Europe — more  childlike,  trusting,  and  satisfied. 
Liberal  ideas  have  not  touched  the  primitive  faith 
of  the  Irish  people  ;  so  far  as  the  peasants  are  con- 
cerned neither  science  nor  Hterature  has  had  the 
smallest  influence  on  their  reHgious  hfe.  No  ; 
the  New  Theology  is  unknown  ;  Modernism  has 
not  gained  the  smallest  foothold.  Christ,  you 
may  be  quite  certain,  is  accepted  absolutely  as  God. 
There  is  no  question  about  that.  And  everything 
taught  by  the  Church  is  cherished  and  believed 
as  utterly  as  if  the  Almighty  Himself  had  spoken  it. 

"  The  rebellion  of  the  Irish  nation  against  the 
tyranny  of  England  in  ancient  days  was  the  natural 
outburst  of  a  kind-hearted  people  to  whom  tyranny 
of  any  kind  is  unthinkable.  That  such  people  will 
ever  become  tjrrants  is  not  to  be  imagined.  It 
is  part  of  the  very  childUke  character  of  their 
faith  to  be  tender,  warm-hearted,  and  loving.    No 


104  TESTIMONIES 

man  who  knows  the  CathoHcs  of  Ireland  can  believe 
for  a  moment  that  they  will  exercise  the  power  of 
their  majority  against  the  Protestants.  Even  if 
the  priests  should  urge  them  to  such  wickedness — 
a  thing  beyond  behef — they  would  resent  the  idea 
with  the  whole  force  and  energy  of  their  nature." 

I  have  often  said  to  EngHshmen  who  fear  Catholic 
intolerance  under  Home  Rule :  "  The  Irish  people 
have  been  known  throughout  history  as  the  kindest 
in  the  world  ;  why  should  they  become  tjnrants 
in  the  twentieth  century  ?  "  The  answer  has 
been  :  "  Oh,  it  isn't  the  people  ;  the  people  have 
to  do  what  the  priests  tell  them."  But  the  Irish 
priest  is  an  Irishman,  drawn  almost  invariably 
from  the  kind-hearted  peasantry,  and  if  the  people 
have  no  seeds  of  tyranny  in  their  blood  neither 
have  the  priests. 


CHAPTER  V 

A   QUAKER'S   PARLOUR 

/^NE  night  I  arrived,  a  few  minutes  before  the 
^-^  hour  of  dinner,  at  an  old-fashioned  hotel  in 
a  rather  prosperous  and  awakening  garrison  town 
of  Southern  Ireland.  Among  the  letters  awaiting 
me  was  one  that  had  not  come  through  the 
post,  a  local  letter,  the  address  written  in  a 
thin,  stiff,  careful  hand,  the  top  of  the  envelope 
marked  with  elaborate  instructions  for  immediate 
dehvery. 

This  letter  came  from  an  eminent  Quaker  in  the 
town,  who  had  been  advised  by  a  friend  of  my 
arrival.  It  requested  me,  after  I  had  dined  and 
rested,  to  come  and  spend  an  hour  with  him  at  his 
house — the  directions  for  finding  this  house  occu- 
pying the  greater  part  of  the  letter.  Among  other 
things,  I  was  told  that  a  street  lamp  stood  opposite 
the  door,  so  that  I  should  have  no  difficulty  in 
reading  the  name  of  the  house,  which  was  plainly 
lettered.  A  nice,  kind,  thoughtful,  and  considerate 
letter,  but  with  something  in  it  that  rather  chastened 
my  natural  good  spirits. 

106 


106  A    QUAKER'S   PARLOUR 

I  traced  the  house,  advanced  up  a  dark  path,  found 
myself  confronted  by  a  sombre  big  door,  and 
timidly  pulled  the  iron  bell-handle.  In  a  minute 
the  door  was  opened  by  my  host  himself. 

In  the  feeble  gaslight  of  the  hall  he  looked  Hke 
a  spectre,  and  even  in  the  warm  lamp-hghted  parlour, 
into  which  he  conducted  me  with  a  somewhat 
jerky  and  nervous  hastiness,  there  seemed  to  me 
an  aspect  of  inhumanity  about  this  good  and  worthy 
man.  Tall,  thin,  emaciated,  of  a  cadaverous  com- 
plexion, and  with  something  vulture-Mke  in  the 
crouch  of  his  neck,  something  inexorable  and  merci- 
less in  the  curved  rigidity  of  his  spine,  he  made  me 
feel  at  once  that  I  must  not  sit  at  ease  in  my  chair, 
that  I  certainly  should  not  be  asked  to  smoke,  and 
that  our  conversation  was  Hke  to  be  as  stiff,  dan- 
gerous, and  mechanical  as  a  cross-examination. 
He  wore  steel-rimmed  spectacles ;  his  greying 
brown  beard  descended  to  the  third  waistcoat 
button  ;  his  clothes  were  a  worn  black  ;  on  his 
feet  were  carpet-sHppers. 

There  was  another  person  in  the  room,  my  host's 
sister.  He  sat  upon  one  side  of  the  fireplace,  I  on 
the  other,  and  behind  us,  seated  at  the  table  and 
close  to  the  lamp,  with  a  big  basket  of  needlework 
before  her,  sat  the  sister,  spectacled,  silent,  busy. 
I  could  hear,  in  the  pauses  of  our  conversation, 
the  tiny  griding  of  her  needle  against  the  thimble, 
the  drawing  of  the  thread  through  Hnen,  and  the 


A    QUAKER'S    PARLOUR  107 

crumpling  of  the  material  as  she  humped  it  into  a 
fresh  position. 

The  room  was  strictly  Victorian.  The  solid 
chairs,  the  big  table  covered  by  a  dull  red  cloth, 
the  woollen  antimacassars,  the  thick  curtains 
drawn  across  the  closed  windows,  the  heavy  mantel- 
piece, the  big-framed  story  pictures,  and  the  drilled 
rows  of  heavy  volumes  in  the  glass-panelled  book- 
case— these  things,  and  the  closeness  of  the  atmo- 
sphere, the  exceeding  primness  of  the  arrangements, 
the  awful  quiet  and  peace  of  the  room,  filled  me 
with  a  sense  of  my  own  irreverence.  I  never  knew 
a  clock  to  tick  so  slowly,  so  sleepily,  so  eternally, 
as  the  square  dark  marble  clock  in  the  middle  of 
the  mantelpiece. 

I  longed  for  the  door  to  burst  open,  for  a  child 
to  come  running  in,  for  a  dog  to  bark  at  me,  even 
for  a  cat  to  curl  itself  up  on  the  black  hearthrug 
in  front  of  the  fire.  But  the  fire  burned  steadily  on, 
the  curtains  remained  unruffled  by  a  breath  of  air, 
my  rigid  host  regarded  me  with  the  air  of  a  vulture, 
and  from  over  my  shoulder  came,  with  the  warm 
lampHght,  the  scratching  of  needle  and  thimble. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  to  give  the  reader  a  full 
account  of  our  conversation  ;  I  have  merely  dwelt 
upon  the  aspect  of  my  host  and  the  character  of 
this  Irish  interior  to  suggest  to  his  mind  the  spirit 
of  Irish  Quakerdom.  I  am  sure  the  reader,  had  he 
been  in  my  place,  would  have  felt  that  here  was  a 


108  A    QUAKER'S    PARLOUR 

man,  and  here  was  an  atmosphere,  Ukely  to  be  at 
discord  with  the  national  aspirations  of  Irish 
Catholics. 

But  on  the  contrary.  Although  sentiment, 
apparently,  plays  no  part  in  the  machinery  of  this 
gentleman's  mind,  he  is  altogether  on  the  side  of 
Home  Rule ;  and  far  from  having  anything  to  say 
against  the  CathoHcs  of  Ireland,  he  confesses  with 
a  grim  humour,  chuckling  metaUically,  that  he 
could  wish  his  feUow-Protestants  were  a  trifle  more 
CathoHc  in  their  virtues. 

He  told  me  that  Home  Rule  is  a  matter  of  busi- 
ness. As  a  man  of  business  he  criticizes  and  con- 
demns the  present  system.  There  can  be  no  sub- 
stantial advance  in  Irish  industry,  he  avers,  while 
the  capitahsts  of  the  country  are  subject  to  the 
uncertainty  of  Downing  Street.  A  man  is  not  going 
to  invest  money  in  Ireland  while  its  government 
is  tethered  to  a  clerk's  desk  in  London.  There  must 
be  something  settled  and  secure  in  the  government 
of  a  country  before  men  will  embark  in  great 
enterprises.  It  will  probably  take  fifteen  years 
after  Ireland  has  secured  Home  Rule  before  capital 
feels  itself  secure.  But  then  the  country  wiU  go 
ahead  at  a  great  rate.  There  is  no  doubt  of 
that.  The  natural  advantages  are  enormous.  The 
character  of  the  people  is  a  guarantee  of  pros- 
perity. 

Before  I  knew  where  I  was,  he  suddenly  carried 


A    QUAKER'S    PARLOUR  109 

the  battle  into  my  own  camp.  With  a  malicious 
smile  in  his  eyes,  sardonic  laughter  under  his  beard, 
he  demanded  to  know  on  what  possible  grounds 
England  could  refuse  self-government  to  Ireland. 
He  spoke  of  South  Africa,  and  insisted  that  I  should 
give  a  reasonable  reply  to  his  challenge.  He  quoted 
statistics  to  prove  that  Ireland  was  the  most 
crimeless  nation  in  Europe.  On  what  ground,  then, 
on  what  possible  ground,  could  England  refuse 
Home  Rule  to  Ireland?  Did  England  think  the 
Irish  were  savages  ?  Did  she  imagine  they  were  not 
able  to  look  after  their  own  affairs — ^Mke  a  parcel  of 
children  ?  Did  she  truly  beheve  that  Ireland  would 
cut  herself  out  of  the  empire  and  one  day  appear 
at  London  Bridge  in  German  cruisers  ? 

My  answer  to  this  onslaught — ^it  is  a  very  terrible 
experience  for  a  man  in  a  Quaker's  parlour  to  find 
himself  suddenly  called  upon  to  defend  the  honour 
and  intelhgence  of  Mother  England — drew  from  my 
host  a  very  remarkable  statement,  a  statement  the 
truth  and  likehhood  of  which  I  have  since  confirmed 
aU  over  Ireland. 

I  said  to  him  :  "  You  must  remember  that  the 
Enghshmen  who  have  to  decide  this  question  are 
very  ordinary  people,  poor  men,  for  the  most  part, 
strugghng  to  make  two  ends  meet,  exceedingly 
anxious  for  more  pressing  reforms  at  home,  and 
entirely  ignorant  of  Ireland.  It  would  have  been 
different,  I  think,  if  Irish  members  of  ParHament 


no  A   QUAKER'S   PARLOUR 

had  produced  a  different  impression  on  those 
English  people.  The  average  EngHshman  in  the 
matter  of  politics  acts  almost  wholly  by  instinct. 
And  his  instinct  concerning  Ireland,  got  from  the 
hurly-burly  of  Irish  pohticians  at  Westminster,  has 
so  far  been  against  Home  Rule." 

The  Quaker  rephed :  "  But  does  the  average 
EngHshman  imagine  that  under  Home  Rule  an 
Irish  ParHament  wiU  be  composed  of  the  men  now 
at  Westminster  ?  " 

"  I  think  he  does.  Is  it  not  the  case  ?  " 
The  Quaker  laughed.  "  There  are  some  very 
able  men,"  he  repHed,  "  among  the  Irish  members, 
some  very  clever,  shrewd,  capable  fellows  ;  but  the 
bulk  is  not  representative  of  Ireland.  Those  men 
are  our  servants.  We  hire  them,  we  employ  them, 
and  we  send  them  to  Westminster  with  one  definite 
object,  an  object  for  which  they  are  excellently 
fitted.  We  send  them  there  to  hold  up  your  ParHa- 
mentary  machine.  We  send  them  to  do  the  rough- 
and-tumble  work  of  making  England  sick  of  the 
Irish  question.  And  when  Home  Rule  is  a  fact, 
their  work  will  be  done,  their  job  will  be  over  ;  they 
will  subside  to  their  natural  place  in  the  body 
poHtic.  No  ;  the  Irish  Parhament  wiU  be  composed 
almost  solely  of  business  and  professional  men. 
Throughout  the  country  there  are  men  of  weight 
and  position  who  will  enter  poHtics,  men  who  will 
not  be  ashamed  to  become  pohticians  when  Irish 


A    QUAKER'S    PARLOUR  111 

politics  is  a  science  of  government.  You  cannot 
expect  such  men  to  waste  their  time  over  work  at 
Westminster  which  a  second-rate  person  can  do 
better  than  they  could  do  it  themselves.  You  must 
remember  that  the  men  of  whom  I  am  speaking 
are  men  of  very  real  parts  ;  Ireland  is  a  civilized 
country ;  our  merchants  and  our  traders  are 
rational  creatures.  We  shall  have  a  ParUament 
quite  capable  of  looking  after  our  affairs.  You  need 
have  no  misgiving  on  that  head.  Ireland  will  be 
governed  in  such  a  way  as  to  encourage  the  invest- 
ment of  capital  and  to  increase  our  commercial 
prosperity.  The  demand  for  Home  Rule  is  chiefly 
for  this  purpose.  The  present  arrangement  is  bad 
business,  it  is  ruinous.  As  a  business  community  we 
want  something  better." 

He  spoke  with  warm  admiration  of  certain  Irish 
members  of  ParUament,  but  he  was  emphatic  in  his 
affirmation  that  the  ruck  would  have  no  place  in 
the  pohtics  of  a  self-governing  Ireland.  He  said 
that  there  were  plenty  of  men  connected  with  rail- 
ways, with  mills,  with  factories,  with  land,  and  with 
the  learned  professions  who  would  only  be  too  glad 
to  enter  an  Irish  ParUament  and  devote  their  powers 
to  Irish  prosperity. 

As  I  have  said,  I  found  that  other  men  in  Ireland 
confirmed  this  statement.  From  one  end  of  the 
country  to  the  other  I  came  across  business  men 
who  told  me  with  an  equal  emphasis  of  conviction 


112  A   QUAKER'S   PARLOUR 

that  an  Irish  ParHament  would  be  composed  of  the 
most  capable  and  responsible  citizens. 

I  asked  the  Quaker  if  he  had  no  misgiving  on  the 
head  of  CathoHc  intolerance. 

"  There  is  no  such  thing,"  he  answered,  "  except 
in  the  imagination  of  Orangemen." 

"  You  think  that  Catholics  wiU  be  fair  and  just  ?  " 

"  They  are  fair  and  just  now,  why  should  they 
be  anything  else  under  Home  Rule  ?  They  could 
boycott  us  now,  they  could  make  it  impossible  for 
us  to  live,  without  breaking  the  law  in  any  way 
they  could  drive  every  one  of  us  out  of  the  south 
of  Ireland.  Our  bread-and-butter,  do  you  not  see, 
depends  upon  them.  We  are  only  a  handful,  they 
are  a  multitude.  But  they  trade  with  us,  they  show 
us  consideration,  and  they  manifest  no  resentment 
against  our  prosperity.  I  find  them  in  business 
singularly  straightforward  and  honest.  I  wish  I 
could  say  the  same  thing  of  all  the  Protestants. 
Now,  why  should  people  who  for  centuries  have  hved 
with  us  on  the  most  amicable  terms,  who  might 
have  ostracized  us,  who  might  have  boycotted 
and  ruined  us  without  incurring  the  smallest  danger, 
and  who,  by  our  ruin,  might  have  gained  our  pros- 
perity— why  should  they  suddenly,  just  because 
Ireland  manages  her  own  affairs,  put  us  to  the 
sword  ?  The  idea  is  preposterous  !  In  spite  of  the 
contempt  shown  to  them  by  certain  Protestants, 
they  have  always  manifested  to  us  a  feeling  of 


A   QUAKER'S   PARLOUR  113 

respect  and  friendliness.    I  have  a  great  admiration 
for  the  virtue  and  honesty  of  Irish  Catholics." 

I  am  sure  the  average  EngHshman  who  has  given 
Httle  thought  to  Ireland  will  be  impressed  by  the 
fact  that  there  are  Quakers  Hving  in  that  country 
who  are  in  favour  of  Home  Rule.  I  hope  that  what 
is  written  above  may  have  weight  with  Enghsh 
Protestants.  And  to  emphasize  this  striking  fact 
of  Quaker  confidence  in  Irish  Cathohcs,  I  will 
take  leave  to  quote  in  conclusion  of  this  chapter 
a  letter  written  by  a  prominent  and  substantial 
Tipperary  Quaker  to  the  Spectator  on  the  subject  of 
CathoHc  intolerance.  No  just  man,  after  reading 
this  letter,  can  surely  beheve  the  wicked  and  shame- 
ful insinuations  with  which  certain  unscrupulous 
Protestants  Hving  peaceably  in  Catholic  Ireland 
have  sought  to  traduce,  for  the  gross  sake  of  social 
ascendancy,  their  feUow-Christians. 

This  is  the  letter,  written  by  Mr.  Ernest  Grubb, 
of  Carrick-on-Suir  : — 

"  Sir, — My  attention  has  been  directed  to  a 
letter  from  Miss  Anne  W.  Richardson,  of  Moyallah, 
Co.  Down,  in  your  issue  of  March  18th  last, 
which  contained  statements  as  to  the  state  of 
feeling  existing  between  Roman  Cathohcs  and 
Protestants  in  the  south  of  Ireland. 

"  Miss  Richardson  may  be  an  authority  as  to 


114  A    QUAKER'S   PARLOUR 

the  state  of  affairs  in  the  north-east  of  Ireland, 
but  she  has  not  Hved  in  the  south  of  Ireland, 
and  she  has  not  had  the  experience  of  social  life 
there  that  I  have  had. 

"  I  must  be  somewhat  egotistical  in  order  to 
establish  my  claim  to  be  a  competent  witness, 
one  who  can  give  rehable  evidence  on  this  ques- 
tion. I  am  a  member  of  the  Society  of  Friends, 
and  have  spent  my  Hfe  as  a  trader  at  Carrick- 
on-Suir,  Clonmel,  etc.,  in  the  south-east  of  Ire- 
land. I  have  taken  an  active  part  in  the  pubHc 
Hfe  of  my  neighbourhood.  I  am  a  Justice  of  the 
Peace  for  the  counties  of  Tipperary  and  Water- 
ford,  and  have  been  for  many  years  an  elected 
member  (and  Chairman)  of  the  County  Council 
of  Tipperary  South  and  the  Urban  Council  of 
Carrick-on-Suir  and  other  pubUc  bodies.  Ninety 
to  ninety-eight  per  cent,  of  my  constituents  are 
Roman  CathoHcs,  and  if  '  reHgious  intolerance  ' 
existed  I  would  not  have  been  chosen  for  these 
positions.  As  regards  the  wiUingness  of  Roman 
CathoHcs  to  elect  Protestants  to  pubHc  boards, 
I  may  add  that  a  Protestant  Unionist  and  a 
Quaker  lady  were  (the  latter  for  many  years) 
elected  guardians  of  the  poor  at  Carrick-on-Suir. 
A  Quaker  Unionist  has  for  many  years  been  vice- 
chairman  of  the  Board  of  Guardians  at  Clonmel, 
and  I  could  give  instances  of  Roman  CathoHcs, 
including  priests,  writing  to  place  Protestants  in 


A    QUAKER'S    PARLOUR  115 

posts  of  profit  and  responsibility  when  they  were 
suitable  for  such  appointments. 

"  With  reference  to  Miss  Richardson's  state- 
ment about  Waterford,  the  Salvation  Army  ladies 
there  told  me  yesterday  that  they  hold  their 
open-air  meetings  without  molestation,  sometimes 
wearing  uniform.  One  or  two  pohce  are  at 
times  present  as  spectators,  and  this  good  order 
has  prevailed  for  a  long  time. 

"  The  case  of  the  Salvation  Army  officer  who 
was  injured  on  Waterford  Quay  about  the  year 
1900  is  an  isolated  occurrence,  and  if  I  remember 
rightly,  tactfulness  might  have  prevented  friction. 
Within  my  own  knowledge,  two  or  more  preachers, 
some  in  clerical  costume,  pray  and  preach  at 
fairs  in  this  district.  They  are  Hstened  to  quietly, 
and  are  not  molested ;  although  they  stand  in  the 
way  of  traffic,  the  country  people  drive  their 
carts  round  them.  It  would  be  impossible  to 
picture  a  better  and  more  Christian  reception. 
The  fair  folk  are  one  hundred  to  one  Roman 
Catholics. 

"  Three  or  four  Protestants  have,  within  the 
last  few  years,  taken  farms  in  this  district  pre- 
viously occupied  by  Roman  Catholics,  and  their 
relations  with  their  Roman  Catholic  neighbours 
have  been  altogether  harmonious. 

*'  My  father  and  mother  and  their  family  lived 
here  through  the  disturbances  in  1848  in  WiUiam 


116  A   QUAKER'S   PARLOUR 

Smith  O'Brien's  time,  and  afterwards  through  the 
period  of  the  Fenian  troubles,  but  we  never  had 
any  difficulty  with  our  neighbours  or  any  insult 
offered  to  us. 

"  I  have,  personally,  no  fear  that  whatever 
legislative  changes  may  take  place  in  the  arrange- 
ments for  the  government  of  Ireland  there  will 
be  anything  to  prevent  Roman  Cathohcs  and 
Protestants  from  living  harmoniously  together 
in  the  land  of  their  birth. — I  am,  sir,  etc., 

"J.  Ernest  Grubb. 

"  Carrick-on-Suir,  Ireland." 

The  Cork  Constitution,  the  principal  Unionist 
journal  in  those  parts  of  Ireland,  quoting  Mr. 
Grubb's  view  that  whatever  legislative  changes 
might  take  place,  there  would  be  nothing  to  prevent 
Protestants  and  Roman  CathoHcs  from  Uving  har- 
moniously together,  adds  (May  2nd,  1911) : — 

"Few  will  be  found  ready  to  take  serious 
exception  to  this  statement,  for  it  is  not  so  much 
reHgious  as  political  intolerance  that  is  feared 
by  the  minority  in  Ireland." 

Of  this  remarkable  admission,  Mr.  Stephen 
Gwynn  has  justly  said :  "  What  the  Cork  Con- 
stitution means  by  poHtical  intolerance  is,  that 
Irish  County  Councils  will  elect  as  public  officers 
persons    in    sympathy    with    their    own    political 


A   QUAKER'S   PARLOUR  117 

views.  If  this  be  persecution,  then  political  per- 
secution is  universally  practised  in  Great  Britain." 
I  beheve  there  have  always  been  more  Protes- 
tants Home  Rulers  in  the  Irish  Parliamentary  party 
than  Roman  Catholics  in  the  rest  of  the  House  of 
Commons.  "  For  more  than  a  hundred  years  the 
majority  of  leaders  of  the  Irish  people  in  the  struggle 
for  national  freedom  have  been  Protestants.''''  Surely 
that  should  be  enough  to  settle  the  question  for 
Protestants  in  England.  The  majority  of  leaders 
have  been  Protestants. 


CHAPTER  VI 
FENIAN,   LAWYER,   AND   EARL 

I  DROVE  one  day  in  the  south  of  Ireland  a 
matter  of  twenty  Irish  miles  to  dine  and  sleep 
with  a  member  of  Parliament.  My  baggage  was 
corded  to  the  front  of  the  car,  and  the  jarvey  on 
the  right  side  and  I  on  the  left,  behind  a  chestnut 
mare  that  tugged  at  the  bit  without  a  stop  the 
whole  length  of  the  journey,  scarcely  exchanged 
a  word.  But  for  the  exciting  pace  of  the  horse  and 
the  stimulating  beauty  of  the  country,  this  would 
have  been  the  very  dullest  of  my  journeys. 

"  She  is  a  fine  mare,"  I  said  admiringly.  "  She 
is  that,  sorr,"  said  the  jarvey.  After  a  considerable 
pause  :  "  She  doesn't  seem  to  mind  the  hills." 
"  She  does  not,  sorr."  Another  pause.  "  This  is 
beautiful  country."  "  Och,  it's  well  enough, 
son."  Another  and  a  longer  pause.  Then,  very 
encouragingly  :  "Do  you  have  excitement  down 
here  at  election  times  ?  "    "  None  at  all,  sorr." 

A  thoughtful  hostess  had  given  me  a  packet  of 
gingerbreads  for  this  cold  drive,  and  I  offered  my 
jarvey  the  freedom  of  the  bag.    He  helped  himseK 

118 


FENIAN,    LAWYER,    AND   EARL      119 

with  a  momentary  smile,  and  then  became  as 
grim  as  a  mute,  munching  in  a  silence  which  could 
only  have  been  broken  with  considerable  danger. 
So  we  rattled  along  without  speech,  up  hill  and 
down  dale,  bumping  and  swinging  through  the  cold 
air,  till  the  twilight  of  a  winter's  afternoon  settled 
upon  the  quiet  earth. 

My  host,  a  soHcitor,  inhabits  a  handsome  red- 
bricked  house  in  a  Georgian-looking  terrace  which 
would,  I  think,  have  pleased  the  eye  of  Thackeray. 
This  terrace,  with  tall  raiUngs  and  steep  steps  to  the 
doors,  is  only  separated  from  a  double-barreUed 
river  by  the  road,  a  plot  of  grass,  and  a  line  of 
stately  poplars.  The  island  which  divides  the 
broad  river  is  almost  opposite  the  door.  Standing 
before  this  tall  and  reeded  door  one  hears  the  rush 
of  water  at  a  weir  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
island,  and  nearer,  the  rustle  of  the  dark  poplars 
at  the  river's  edge.  On  the  further  side  of  the 
river,  dimly  seen  through  the  trees,  are  gentle  hills 
planted  with  homesteads.  A  prettier  prospect  for 
the  office  windows  of  a  solicitor  I  have  never  seen. 

The  door  was  opened  by  an  elderly  gentlewoman, 
who  announced  herself  to  be  my  host's  house- 
keeper, and  who  conducted  me,  with  a  somewhat 
elaborate  but  most  picturesque  ritual  of  hospitahty, 
to  the  floor  above.  In  a  large  and  lofty  apartment, 
I  found  one  end  of  a  long  table  laid  for  dinner, 
while  the  other  end  was  piled  with  books,  which 


120      FENIAN,    LAWYER,   AND   EARL 

were  not  solely  legal  or  Parliamentary.  A  huge 
coal-fire  blazed  in  the  grate.  The  windows  were 
shuttered,  the  curtains  drawn.  Comfortable  chairs 
stood  on  either  side  of  the  hearth.  Cigarettes  and 
matches  were  set  ready  on  the  mantelpiece. 

My  host,  I  was  told,  would  soon  be  back,  was 
indeed  already  overdue.  He  had  gone  to  a  meeting 
some  few  miles  away,  but  he  was  driving  a  couple 
of  horses  and  it  could  not  now  be  long  before  he 
returned.  The  housekeeper  expressed  as  much 
anxiety  for  my  comfort  and  entertainment  as 
solicitude  for  the  dinner  she  was  preparing  in  the 
kitchen. 

I  sat  by  the  fire  convinced  that  Ireland  was  the 
most  silent  country  in  the  world.  Then  I  fetched 
a  book  of  Irish  poems  from  the  table,  and  read 
it  nearly  through.  Occasionally  the  housekeeper 
moimted  the  stairs  to  express  her  growing  anxiety 
and  offer  fresh  apologies  for  the  inconvenience  I 
was  suffering ;  then  she  would  disappear,  mutter- 
ing, to  look  after  her  imperilled  cooking.  An  hour 
of  silence  passed  away.  .  .  . 

Presently  the  sound  of  trotting  hoofs  and  rumbling 
wheels  was  heard  in  the  night  outside,  and — ^yes, 
they  stopped  below  the  windows.  I  heard  voices  ; 
the  horses  trotted  away  ;  a  key  was  turned  in  the 
lock  of  the  front  door  ;  the  door  closed  with  a  hand- 
some thud  ;  voices  ascended  to  me,  and  steps  began 
to  mount  the  stairs. 


FENIAN,    LAWYER,    AND  EARL       121 

My  host  entered,  quick,  alert,  pleasant,  apolo- 
getic— a  small,  precise,  trim-bearded,  eye-glassed 
man,  full  of  capacity  and  restrained  force.  He  was 
followed  by  a  slow-moving,  heavy-shouldered,  and 
solemn  giant — a  brother  Member  of  Parhament. 

Then  came  the  explanation.  There  had  been 
trouble  at  the  meeting.  When  they  arrived  at  the 
place,  they  found  the  people  in  a  ferment  and  a 
body  of  police  in  occupation.  The  meeting  had 
been  proscribed  !  It  was  a  gathering  caUed  to  pro- 
test against  the  handling  of  certain  grazing  ground, 
and  somebody  in  the  neighbourhood  had  evidently 
telegraphed  to  DubHn  Castle  expressing  alarm.  That 
was  enough.  The  result  was  a  legion  of  warlike 
constables  under  the  generalship  of  a  County  In- 
spector. 

"  And  consider,  sir,  the  fatuity  as  weU  as  the 
scandalous  insult  of  the  proceeding,"  said  the 
giant,  appeaHng  to  my  judgment.  "  The  order 
forbade  us  to  hold  the  meeting  at  a  certain  spot, 
but  did  not  say  that  we  were  not  to  hold  it  at 
another.  Could  anything  on  God's  earth  be  more 
foohsh  than  that  ?  '  Do  I  understand,  Mr.  Inspec- 
tor,' I  asked — I  know  the  man  weU,  and  he's  a 
very  good  fellow — '  that  your  order  forbids  me 
to  address  these  people,  my  constituents,  Mr.  In- 
spector, forbids  me  to  address  my  constituents  at 
this  one  spot,  and  not  at  that  spot  over  there,  ten 
yards  away  ?  '     He  admitted  such  was  the  case. 


122      FENIAN,    LAWYER,    AND   EARL 

But  I  was  not  to  be  fobbed  ofF.  Standing  there,  and 
addressing  myself  to  the  Inspector,  I  said  all  I 
wanted  to  say,  and  I  said  it  with  the  greater  force 
inspired  by  this  disgraceful  provocation.  In  fact, 
I  made  a  speech  !  The  people  crowded  about  us, 
and  they  were  willing  enough  to  resent  the  insult 
offered  to  me  and  to  my  honourable  friend  here  ; 
but  we  held  them  in  check.  I  told  the  Inspector 
that  but  for  us,  but  for  our  restraining  influence 
on  the  side  of  law  and  order,  his  presence  there,  and 
the  presence  of  his  constables,  might  have  led  to 
bloodshed.  '  Take  note,'  I  said,  '  that  we  have 
ordered  the  people  to  keep  the  peace,  and  helped 
you  to  do  your  duty.'  Then  we  walked  across  the 
road  and  held  our  meeting  !  " 

There  was  no  hysterical  excitement  about  these 
two  heroes  of  a  proscribed  meeting.  The  giant  was 
scornful,  satirical,  indignant.  The  lawyer  was 
amused,  and  laughed  as  he  gave  his  version  of  the 
adventure.  We  sat  down  to  roast  chickens  in  the 
best  of  good-humours.  Silence  was  dissipated. 
Ireland  had  found  her  tongue. 

I  said  that  it  would  be  an  amusing  day  for  Ire- 
land when  Lord  Londonderry  and  Sir  Edward 
Carson  were  run  in  for  ferocious  and  inciting  lan- 
guage— a  brace  of  Pistols  more  dangerous,  I  was 
sure,  than  my  present  friends.  The  giant  raised 
his  huge  hands,  opened  his  eyes  wide,  and  shook 
his  head  with  reproach.     "  Leave  them  alone,  sir, 


FENIAN,   LAWYER,    AND   EARL      123 

leave  them  alone.  You  know  what  the  Irish  con- 
stable said  to  the  excitable  gentleman  at  a  meeting. 
'  Look  here,'  says  he,  '  if  you  don't  behave  your- 
self,' he  says,  *  I  won't  run  you  in  ! '  Oh  no,  leave 
them  alone.  But,  I  understand.  You're  joking ; 
of  course,  of  course." 

I  discovered  that  this  giant,  a  most  respected 
man,  and  a  former  mayor  of  the  town,  had  been  a 
Fenian.  Conversation  worked  round  to  the  old 
days  of  Irish  agitation,  and  the  giant  held  the  field 
with  stately  eloquence.  His  iron-grey  hair  made 
an  excellent  foil  to  the  purple  of  his  skin  ;  the 
large  eyes,  now  kindly  with  age,  had  once  been 
fierce  and  challenging  ;  he  wore  a  moustache,  and 
looked  hke  some  old  heavy-shouldered  Prussian 
general  who  had  soldiered  with  Moltke. 

It  was  interesting  to  notice  how  the  subject  of 
old  days  worked  up  the  Fenian  slumbering  in  his 
soul;  amusing  to  observe  how  in  the  midst  of  a 
peroration  which  never  quite  perorated  to  a  close, 
the  precise  Httle  man  of  law  vainly,  but  with  perfect 
good- temper  over  the  failure,  endeavoured  to  begin 
a  more  modern  speech  of  his  own. 

"  I  have  seen  men  whipped  at  the  cart's  tail," 
said  the  old  Fenian.  "  I  have  seen  the  blood 
streaming  from  their  backs,  and  I  have  seen  them 
hanged  Hke  dogs  in  the  street ;  and  I  say  those 
men  were  murdered,  I  say  they  were  martyrs,  I  say 
their  blood  was  given  for  God  and  coimtry;    and 


124      FENIAN,    LAWYER,   AND   EARL 

although,  glory  be  to  God,  the  times  have  changed, 
and  England  is  now  ready  to  listen  to  Ireland's  cry, 
and  the  justification  for  violence  can  no  longer 
be  pleaded,  I  say  that  the  Fenians  did  a  righteous 
work,  and  that  Ireland  will  owe  her  eventual  free- 
dom, her  liberty,  and  her  life  to  the  blood  they  shed 
for  their  coimtry." 

"  There  is  a  point  I  should  like^to  "  began 

our  host. 

*'  But  I  say  to  England,"  broke  in  the  old  Fenian, 
"  that  if  she  denies  us  now  the  gift  of  self-govern- 
ment, if  she  draws  back  and  plays  the  coward  and 
the  traitor,  Ireland  wiU  no  longer  be  at  peace,  the 
old  spirit  wiU  manifest  itself,  and  violence  will 
confront  her  at  every  turn  in  her  way." 

"  I  think,  perhaps,  we  ought  to  point  out " 

"  Let  there  be  no  mistake  about  it,"  cried  the 
Fenian,  with  a  bang  of  his  great  fist  on  the  table, 
"  Ireland  is  peaceful  now  because  she  anticipates 
justice,  because  she  recognizes,  gratefully  and 
generously  recognizes,  that  England  is  endeavouring 
to  make  reparation  for  the  past,  and  God  grant 
that  reparation  may  be  made  soon,  aye,  and  in  fuU. 
But  let  England  deceive  Ireland  once  again " 

"  Oh,  but  she  won't,"  said  the  smihng  lawyer, 
fixing  his  poHshed  eye-glasses  on  the  bridge  of  his 
nose.  "We  needn't  fear  that.  I  was  going  to 
point  out " 

"  I  say,  let  England  deceive  Ireland  once  again," 


FENIAN,    LAWYER,    AND   EARL      125 

roared  the  big  Fenian,  "  let  Ireland  once  again  be 
thrown  back  upon  the  bitter  memories  of  her  tragic 
history,  and  you  will  have  a  more  angry  and  a 
more  violent  spirit  at  work  than  anything  you 
have  known  in  the  past.  But  I  confidently  believe, 
and  I  thank  God  for  it,  that  the  day  of  estrangement 
is  over,  the  long  night  of  misunderstanding  is  at 
an  end  ;  we  shall  live  together,  sir,  in  peace  and 
honourable  friendship  ;  and  Ireland  will  be  a  source 
of  strength  to  England,  more  loyal  than  Canada, 
more  powerful  for  help  than  any  other  integral  part 
of  the  British  Empire  ;  and  I  beUeve  that  England 
will  Uve  to  love  Ireland  and  to  thank  her  for  showing 
her  the  path  of  duty." 

"  I  don't  think  people  quite  realize "  began 

the  lawyer. 

"  That  is  my  behef,  sir,"  continued  the  Fenian, 
now  thoroughly  urbane,  flourishing  a  napkin  and 
bowing  in  my  direction  ;  "  and  I  thank  God,  sir, 
I  say  I  thank  God,  that  I  am  likely  to  Hve  to  see 
the  day  when  our  two  nations,  burying  the  past 
and  forgetting  old  offences,  will  stand  together  in 
the  inseparable  bonds  of  friendship  and  respect, 
firm  for  righteousness,  strong  for  progress,  and  un, 
conquerable  against  the  fury  of  their  enemies." 

"  Quite  so,  and " 

"  But,  as  I  said  before,  let  England  disappoint 
Ireland  once  again "  etc.  etc. 

It  was  a  most  excellent  dinner,  and  I  thoroughly 


126      FENIAN,    LAWYER,    AND    EARL 

enjoyed  the  unending  peroration  of  the  handsome 
old  Fenian,  knowing  that  I  should  have  opportunity 
later  on  of  hearing  the  more  modern  wisdom  of  my 
host. 

"  Ah,  if  I  could  tell  you  all  I  have  seen  and  known 
in  this  very  neighbourhood,"  cried  the  Fenian. 
"  I  remember  old  men  being  flogged  and  hanged, 
I  remember  the  most  respectable  men  in  this  town 
being  thrown  into  prison  for  a  speech  to  their  fellow- 
countrymen  on  the  glory  of  Uberty  and  patriotism. 
Those  things  ♦made  a  very  great  impression  on  my 
mind,  but  they  did  not  assume  a  political  signifi- 
cance ;  they  simply  made  me  hate  the  poHce  and 
loathe  the  law  of  the  land.  But  one  day,  when  I 
was  still  a  boy,  I  went  with  my  father  for  a  drive, 
and  I  saw  a  sight  that  made  me  from  that  moment 
a  politician.  It  was  a  wet  day,  and  as  we  drove  up 
to  the  house  of  a  land-agent,  we  saw  the  tenants, 
who  had  called  to  pay  their  rents,  taking  off  their 
boots  outside  the  house  before  they  entered.  I 
asked  my  father  why  they  did  so.  He  laughed 
bitterly  and  said  that  it  was  always  done — ^it  was 
a  part  of  a  tenant's  duty  to  his  landlord.  At  that 
moment  there  came  to  me  not  only  a  feeHng  of 
patriotism,  but  a  feeling  of  manhood."  He  flung 
back  his  head,  squared  his  great  shoulders,  opened 
wide  his  eyes,  and,  half  smiling  and  half  threatening, 
exclaimed,  "  I  felt  myself  to  be  no  serf  !  I  would 
have  felled  that  man  to  the  earth — whoever  he  was 


FENIAN,    LAWYER,    AND   EARL      127 

— who  ordered  me  to  take  my  boots  off  at  his  door  ! 
And  from  that  day  I  dreamed  of  giving  my  Hfe  for 
Ireland,  dreamed  of  rescuing  my  land  from  the 
humiliation  and  debasement  of  a  foreign  tyranny  ; 
there  was  nothing  I  would  not  then  have  done  to 
win  my  country's  freedom.  And  there's  not  an 
EngUshman  worth  the  name  who  in  Hke  conditions 
would  not  have  the  same  passions  smouldering  in 
his  breast.  I  assure  you  that  spirit  of  NationaHty 
was  Hke  an  agony  gnawing  at  our  hearts.  I  met 
an  old  poor  man  the  other  day,  a  Httle  farmer  not 
many  miles  from  here,  who  recognized  me,  greeted 
me  by  name,  and  shook  my  hand  ;  then  he  said  to 
me  in  a  whisper,  smihng  with  a  hundred  memories 
in  his  eyes,  Fve  still  got  her.  That  was  enough. 
It  was  Hke  a  Freemason's  sign  between  us.  He 
meant  that  he  still  kept  his  old  Fenian's  musket  ! 

"  I  can  tell  you  a  story  which  shows  how  men 
became  Fenians  in  those  days,  and  how  Fenianism 
— ^let  Enghshmen  despise  and  condemn  it  as  they 
wiU — won  Ireland  the  first  steps  on  her  road  to 
freedom.  There  were  two  farmers  in  this  country, 
one  an  old  soldier  with  a  wooden  leg  who  let  his 
land  go  as  it  would,  the  other  a  most  industrious, 
hard-working  man  who  did  his  duty  by  the  land 
and  grubbed  every  halfpenny  out  of  its  soil.  The 
timber-legged  gentleman  was  generously  and  in- 
dulgently treated  by  the  landlord's  agent ;  the 
other  was  rack-rented  and  persecuted  by  the  police 


128      FENIAN,   LAWYER,    AND    EARL 

till  his  life  was  almost  unendurable.  Directly  he 
improved  his  land,  the  rent  was  raised,  directly  he 
repaired  his  buildings  or  bought  himself  a  decent 
coat,  the  rent  was  raised  ;  and  the  other  man 
lived  on  at  the  same  rent,  unmolested  by  the  poHce 
and  treated  with  respect  by  his  landlord. 

"  One  day  these  two  men  met  at  a  wedding.  A 
priest  who  knew  them  weU,  both  the  meek  and 
patient  man  and  timber-toes,  asked  the  latter, 
*  How  is  it  the  poHce  don't  persecute  you,  as  they 
persecute  your  neighbour  here  ?  '  The  old  soldier 
laughed  between  his  teeth,  proudly,  defiantly. 
'  Because,  Father,'  said  he,  *  they  know  I'd  shoot ! ' 

"  Do  you  wonder,  then,  that  men  with  the  real 
stuff  of  manhood  in  them,  regarded  meekness,  and 
patience,  and  docihty,  and  subserviency  as  virtues 
too  fine  for  this  rough  world  ?  Do  you  wonder  that 
these  men  armed  themselves,  and  sought  by  any 
means  in  their  power,  lawful  or  unlawful,  to  defend 
their  manhood  and  their  honour  ?  But,  thanks  be 
to  God,  that  is  all  over  and  done  with.  The  old 
rancour  is  past.  The  old  bitterness  and  hatred  are 
forgotten.  Once,  I  do  assure  you  " — his  eyes  blazed 
and  he  clenched  his  fists — "  we  would  have  plunged 
England  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  aye,  and,  if  we 
could,  we  would  have  ripped  up  the  bottom  and 
sunk  her  to  another  place  below,  down,  down,  down, 
as  far  as  we  could  get  her  !  But  now,  thanks  be  to 
Grod  " — ^his  face  softened,  his  eyes  smiled,  and  his 


FENIAN,    LAWYER,    AND   EARL      129 

voice  cooed — "  we  have  no  other  feeling  in  our 
hearts  than  a  desire  to  forget  the  past  and  to  Hve 
in  friendship  and  goodwill  with  our  friends  across 
St.  George's  Channel." 

When  this  interesting  old  man  had  departed, 
taking  his  leave  with  a  really  charming  courtesy 
which  reminded  me  of  Sir  WiUiam  Harcourt,  my 
host  the  lawyer  drew  his  chair  a  httle  nearer  to  the 
fire,  handed  me  the  cigarettes,  and  began  to  speak 
of  Ireland's  future.  The  contrast  was  complete. 
Ireland's  past  is  fuU  of  sound  and  fury,  of  poetry 
and  heroism,  of  fighting  and  speech-making  ;  her 
future  is  concerned  with  butter  and  eggs,  a  sensible 
adjustment  of  trading  relations  with  England,  and 
a  development  of  industries. 

The  lawyer  never  once  raised  his  voice,  never 
once  began  an  interminable  peroration,  never 
threatened  or  forgave.  In  the  even  tones  and  the 
direct  language  of  a  modern  business  man  he  dis- 
cussed the  future  of  Ireland  with  a  sagacity  that 
seemed  to  me  of  good  augury  for  the  Irish  ParHa- 
ment. 

He  said  that  all  idea  of  separation  from  England 
is  now  regarded  as  absurd.  No  sensible  man  in 
Ireland  dreams  of  such  a  thing.  If  Ireland  is 
necessary  to  England,  so  much  more  is  England 
necessary  to  Ireland.  In  a  word,  England  is  Ire- 
land's market.  No  sensible  business  man  will 
imperil  his  best  market.     "To  quarrel  with  you," 


130      FENIAN,    LAWYER,   AND    EARL 

he  said,  "  would  be  to  quarrel  with  our  bread  and 
butter.  We  are  not  likely  to  do  that.  For  selfish 
reasons  alone,  we  shall  try  to  inspire  Enghsh  confi- 
dence in  Irish  undertakings  and  English  affection 
for  the  Irish  people.     We  have  our  hving  to  get." 

The  future  of  Ireland,  he  declared,  Hes  in  agricul- 
tural development.  The  possibihties  in  this  direction 
are  very  great.  With  modern  methods  and  im- 
proved machinery  appHed  by  so  clever  and  in- 
dustrious a  nation,  there  is  here  immense  room  for 
evolution.  Ireland  must  always  be  first  and  fore- 
most an  agricultural  nation.  It  is  quite  possible, 
he  thinks,  for  Ireland  to  become  the  market-garden 
of  England.  Another  field  in  which  the  possibihties 
are  considerable  is  the  milk  trade.  At  present  it 
is  hardly  organized  at  all,  and  the  methods  are  old- 
fashioned. 

He  spoke  about  the  absurdity  of  sending  milk 
in  broad-bottomed  cans  which  taper  to  the  top  like 
a  sugar-loaf.  Not  only,  he  pointed  out,  is  it  difficult 
to  clean  those  cans  properly,  but  they  waste  enor- 
mous space  in  transit,  and  so  add  to  the  cost  of 
carriage.  This  very  obvious  criticism  had  not 
occurred  to  me  before.  I  had  accepted  the  com- 
mercial milk-can  with  gravitation,  decimals,  and 
income-tax.  But  my  host  was  a  revolutionist. 
In  future,  he  said,  Ireland  will  send  her  milk  to 
England  in  flat,  trunk-hke  cans  which  may  be  piled 
in  train  or  steamer  one  on  top  of  the  other,  wasting 


FENIAN,    LAWYER,    AND   EARL       131 

no  space  whatever,  and  which  can  be  thoroughly 
and  easily  cleaned.  Stirring  times!  The  Higher 
Criticism  has  no  reverence  even  for  immemorial 
milk-cans. 

But  my  host  is  not  a  light-hearted  Anarchist. 
He  declared  emphatically  that  SociaHsm  is  a 
quite  impossible  creed  for  Ireland.  Of  all  European 
countries,  Ireland  is  the  most  Conservative.  He 
said  that  the  grouping  of  parties  in  the  Irish  Parha- 
ment  would  testify  to  this  Conservative  instinct  of 
the  Irish  nation.  Mr.  Redmond,  he  thinks,  will  be 
at  the  head  of  an  overwhelming  Conservative  party. 
Mr.  Joseph  DevUn,  with  Belfast  at  his  back,  will 
lead  a  very  intelhgent  and  active  Democratic  party. 
Mr.  DevHn  will  work  for  the  revival  of  Irish  in- 
dustries, and  for  various  social  reforms  on  the 
model  of  Liberal  legislation  in  England ;  Mr. 
Redmond  will  grudgingly  and  only  under  the 
greatest  pressure  yield  to  the  mildest  of  these 
demands.  "We  shaU  develop  village  industries," 
he  said ;  "  but  our  social  reforms  will  attempt 
nothing  heroic.  We  are  farmers  and  gardeners. 
And  what  is  more,  we  don't  want  to  be  anything 


For  himself,  he  is  devoted  to  the  land  question, 
of  which  he  has  made  a  particular  study,  and  his 
conviction  is  that  the  tendency  of  Irish  legislation 
for  many  years  to  come  will  be  all  in  this  direction. 
"  Our  battles,"  be  said,  "  wiU  be  pastoral  I  " 


132      FENIAN,    LAWYER,    AND   EARL 

I  went  from  this  pleasant  terraced  house  over- 
looking a  beautiful  river  flowing  through  a  market- 
town  full  of  activity  and  business,  to  the  little 
exquisite  Eden  of  Adare,  where  Lord  Dunraven 
spends  the  greater  part  of  his  time  in  Ireland.  The 
domain  is  so  beautiful,  with  its  river  and  lakes, 
its  woodlands  and  its  lawns,  its  ruins  and  its  gar- 
dens, that  one  forgets  the  depression  and  ugliness 
of  the  surrounding  country  and  forgives  the  rather 
pretentious  and  forbidding  character  of  the  man- 
sion's architecture.  It  is  a  place  for  a  poet,  even 
more  lovely  than  Penshurst,  and  to  linger  in  those 
grounds  is  to  forget  the  fierce  struggle  for  existence, 
the  defilements  of  competitive  industrialism. 

For  Lord  Dunraven  himself  one  can  only  have 
admiration  and  real  liking.  He  has  done  the 
bravest  thing  an  Irish  landlord  can  do — ^he  has  made 
friends  with  Nationalist  members  of  Parliament, 
Moreover,  he  has  spoken  and  written  with  con- 
vincing logic,  and  a  wholly  unquestionable  honesty, 
on  the  subject  of  Devolution,  and  has  pubHcly  on 
many  occasions  associated  himself  with  the  national 
aspirations  of  Irishmen.  This,  and  his  lavish 
generosity  as  landlord  and  farmer,  has  secured  for 
him  a  place  in  Irish  life  which  is  as  honourable 
and  patriotic  as  it  is  admirable  in  the  eyes  of  many 
NationaHsts,  and  detestable  in  the  eyes  of  every 
Orangeman. 

He  grows  old  invisibly,  and  his  laughter  and 


FENIAN,    LAWYER,    AND   EARL      133 

cheerfulness  are  as  middle-aged  as  the  quiet 
vigour  with  which  he  expresses  his  opinions.  It  is 
difficult  to  reahze  that  he  was  born  when  Queen 
Victoria  was  yet  a  girl,  and  has  Hved  a  hfe  fuU  of 
excitement  and  adventure. 

I  do  not  think  that  he  is  quite  abreast  of  modern 
thought,  that  he  is  fully  conscious  of  democratic 
ideaHsm,  or  that  he  has  so  completely  lost,  as 
Sir  Edward  Grey,  for  instance,  the  rather  hindering 
affection  for  the  idea  of  social  caste.  But  he  is  intel- 
lectual, he  is  practical,  and  he  has  the  wisdom  of 
common  sense.  If  he  does  not  march  in  the  front 
rank  of  humanity,  he  at  any  rate  marches  in  step  with 
the  general  army.  He  adapts  himself,  or  at  any 
rate  endeavours  to  adapt  himself,  to  the  changing 
world,  with  cheerfulness  and  good-humour.  Mr. 
Lloyd  George  has  hit  him  hard  financially ;  Lord 
Dunraven  does  not  minimize  this  effect  of  Liberal 
finance  on  his  exchequer ;  but  he  agrees  that  such 
taxation  is  necessary,  and  accepts  the  burden  with- 
out complaint. 

I  asked  him  how  it  was  that  he  came  to  take  an 
interest  in  the  Irish  question,  how  he  found  time 
in  the  midst  of  a  sporting  and  fashionable  Hfe,  with 
all  the  capitals  of  Europe  for  his  playground,  to 
study  the  somewhat  dreary  business  of  Irish 
pohtics.  I  asked  this  question  because  one  meets 
in  Ireland  many  men  less  wealthy  and  less  involved 
in  the  bewitchments  of  society  than  Lord  Dunraven 


134      FENIAN,    LAWYER,    AND    EARL 

who  profess  the  most  lofty  contempt  for  Irish 
politics  and  only  yawn  at  the  mention  of  Irish 
Nationality. 

My  host  smiled  at  the  question.  "  I'm  afraid," 
said  he,  "  that  I  thought  precious  Httle  about  the 
matter  in  my  youth.  I  was  as  bad  as  any  other 
young  fellow  of  my  age  in  that  respect.  I  was  far 
keener  on  sport,  on  social  Ufe  ;  and  my  Hterary 
and  scientific  interests  carried  me  still  further  afield 
from  Ireland.  But  I  think  I  must  have  inherited 
from  my  father  a  tendency  that  sooner  or  later 
was  bound  to  draw  my  attention  to  Ireland.  He 
was  an  archaeologist,  and  as  an  archaeologist  loved 
Ireland.  He  did  not  interest  himself  in  Irish  poUtics, 
but  he  was  consumedly  interested  in  the  Irish  people 
and  in  Irish  customs  and  beUefs.  My  own  first  step 
towards  sympathy  with  Ireland  came  in  middle-life, 
and  began  with  my  perception  that  the  root  trouble 
of  Irish  discontent  lay  in  the  Land  question.  As 
an  Irish  landlord  I  was  affected  by  Land  Agitation, 
and  this  led  me  to  study  the  matter.  I  began  my 
study  merely  as  an  Irish  landlord,  and  with  no  pre- 
possessions in  favour  of  Irish  poUticians — ^in  fact, 
I  suppose  I  rather  despised  those  gentry.  But  my 
investigations  brought  me  into  contact  with  the 
NationaUsts,  and  I  very  soon  discovered  that  many 
of  them  were  able,  honourable,  and  very  pleasant 
fellows.  That  was  my  first  illumination  !  As  I 
proceeded  in  my  work  I  lost  all  antipathies  in  this 


FENIAN,    LAWYER,    AND   EARL      136 

respect,  and  came  to  see  that  a  settlement  of  the 
Land  question  and  a  measure  of  Devolution  were 
not  only  essential  for  Irish  prosperity,  but  would 
transform  Ireland  into  a  powerful  and  loyal  member 
of  the  British  Empire.  You  can  imagine  that  such 
a  perception  made  me  enthusiastic,  both  as  an 
Irishman  and  as  an  Imperiahst.  But  the  work  was 
extremely  difficult  and  disheartening.  The  Con- 
servatives flirted  with  the  idea  from  time  to  time, 
but  lacked  courage  and  conviction  to  make  it  the 
centre  of  their  Irish  poHcy.  And  with  the  exception 
of  a  few  very  noble  men,  the  Nationalists  hung  back, 
clung  to  their  isolation,  persisted  in  their  aloofness, 
and  would  not  concentrate  with  the  rest  of  us  on 
the  work  of  Concihation.  However,  the  idea  has 
penetrated  every  political  party,  both  in  England 
and  Ireland,  and  I  think  that  some  day  men  will 
acknowledge  the  justice  and  wisdom  of  our  propa- 
ganda. I  am  not  a  Separatist,  not  a  Home  Ruler 
in  the  professional  sense  of  that  term,  but  I  am  an 
Imperiahst  and  a  Devolutionist.  Whatever  may 
be  the  fate  of  our  theory,  I  am  glad  of  the  little 
humble  part  I  have  played  in  Irish  poHtics,  if  only 
because  it  has  broadened  my  knowledge,  enlarged 
my  sympathies,  and  made  me — ^I  hope  I  may  say 
so — a  better  Irishman." 

Three  brief  extracts  from  Lord  Dunraven's 
book.  The  Outlook  in  Ireland,  will  convince  any  open- 
minded  reader  of  the  immense  seriousness  of  this 


136      FENIAN,    LAWYER,    AND    EARL 

Irish  question.  So  many  people  are  content  to 
think  of  the  Irish  struggle  as  a  game  played  by 
pohtical  agitators  for  the  sake  of  a  wage  ;  very  few 
people  realize  that  Ireland  is  now  at  this  moment 
heading  for  absolute  bankruptcy,  an  impoverished, 
a  bleeding,  and  a  dying  nation.  Lord  Dunraven's 
conversion  should  persuade  careless  thinkers  in 
England  that  there  is  at  least  some  ReaHty  in 
Ireland's  struggle  for  existence,  and  a  perusal  of 
his  book  should  make  them  fighters  for  the  Irish 
Cause. 

Consider  these  three  short  statements  : — 

In  1841  Ireland  had  over  three  times  as 
many  inhabitants  as  Scotland  could  boast ;  half 
as  many  as  England  and  Wales  claimed.  At 
that  time  nearly  one-third  of  the  whole  popula- 
tion of  the  United  Kingdom  lived  in  Ireland. 
In  sixty  yeurs  the  pojmlation  of  Ireland  had  fallen 
by  nearly  4,000,000  (for  in  1903  the  number  was 
estimated  to  be  4,391,565) — a  record  of  national 
wastage  which  is  unparalleled  in  the  history  of 
the  world. 

Let  readers  ponder  on  the  fact  that  Ireland 
has  a  larger  proportion  of  aged  than  any  other 
country  in  the  King's  dominions,  because  the 
young  and  energetic  have  fled  to  other  lands  in 
search  of  happiness  and  fortune.  In  Ireland,  out 
of  every  thousand  of  the  population,  there  are 


FENIAN,    LAWYER,    AND   EARL      137 

sixty-four  men  and  sixty-three  women  of  sixty-five 
years  of  age  or  upward  ;  while  in  England  and 
Wales  the  figures  are  forty-two  and  fifty-one 
respectively ;  and  in  Scotland,  forty-one  and 
fifty-six. 

And  there  is  another  terrible  leakage  from 
which  Ireland  is  suffering,  namely,  lunacy.  The 
figures  of  the  Census  of  1901  tell  an  amazing  story 
of  the  mental  gloom  which  year  by  year  has 
been  setthng  down  upon  those  who  have  re- 
mained in  the  old  country.  .  .  .  The  mental 
ravages  among  the  Irish  people  are  set  forth  with 
shocking  lucidity  in  the  last  Census  Report : 
"  The  total  number  of  lunatics  and  idiots  re- 
turned in  1851  was  equal  to  a  ratio  of  1  in  657 
of  the  population  ;  in  1861,  to  1  in  411  ;  in 
1871,  to  1  in  328  ;  in  1881,  to  1  in  281  ;  in  1891, 
to  1  in  222  ;  and  on  the  present  occasion,  to  1 
in  178." 

Drained  by  emigration,  gloomed  by  the  absence 
of  the  young,  let  and  hindered  by  the  sense  of  an 
immemorial  poHtical  wrong,  Ireland,  now  brought 
to  beggary  by  EngHsh  legislation,  makes  another 
eager,  pathetic,  and  passionate  appeal  to  Great 
Britain  for  the  one  boon  which  can  avert  her 
ruin  and  make  possible  her  ultimate  salvation. 

Whether  it  be  by  the  eloquence  of  the  old  Fenian, 
the  common  sense  of  the  precise  lawyer,  or  the 


138      FENIAN,    LAWYER,    AND   EARL 

passionless  conversion  to  her  cause  of  the  aristo- 
cratic landlord,  let  the  reader  be  persuaded  that 
Ireland,  whatever  he  may  think  of  the  matter,  con- 
siders that  she  has  suffered  grievous  wrong,  is  now 
in  a  perilous  and  most  calamitous  condition,  and 
by  self-government  may  find  a  happy  issue  out  of  aU 
her  afflictions. 


CHAPTER  VII 
MONUMENTUM   AERE   PERENNIUS 

CORK  is  a  city  full  of  encouragements  for  lan- 
guid people.  If  the  Fat  Boy  of  Pickwick  had 
lived  there  I  doubt  if  he  would  have  wakened  even 
to  take  his  meals. 

It  is  a  city  composed  of  all  the  quiet  corners 
and  sleepy  places  of  other  cities.  You  find  there  a 
terrace  of  white  villas  on  a  green  and  leafy  hiU 
that  has  been  lifted  bodily  from  the  Riviera, 
a  neglected  square  transplanted  from  the  inner 
quiet  of  Antwerp,  a  Mall  that  has  walked  in 
its  sleep  from  Bury  St.  Edmunds,  a  riverside  that 
has  floated  from  Blois,  and  a  suburban  quarter 
that  people  must  vainly  be  looking  for  in  Wimble- 
don. 

But  this  slumbrous  patchwork  quilt  of  a  city 
has  one  scarlet  oasis  of  trumpeting  Violence.  It  is 
a  National  Monument — a  monument  to  the  patriots 
of  other  days.  Not  beautiful,  but  aggressive,  not 
elevating,  but  terrifying,  this  mass  of  tortured 
stone  stands  in  the  centre  of  the  city's  peace  hke 

I8d 


140     MONUMENTUM   AERE   PERENNIUS 

Boreas  executing  an  apache  dance  in  the  fields  of 
lotus-land. 

I  was  taken  to  see  it  one  morning  by  a  peaceful 
and  law-abiding  colonel,  retired  from  the  Indian 
Army — an  elderly  and  amiable  man,  entirely  loyal 
to  the  British  Empire,  solemnly  gratified  by  Britain's 
glory,  a  thoughtful  orthodox  Presbyterian,  a  steady 
Home  Ruler,  and  a  Christian  living  in  love  and 
charity  with  his  CathoHc  neighbours.  You  could 
scarcely  imagine  a  more  delectable  guide  for  so  war- 
whooping  a  monument. 

On  one  side  of  this  fearsome  erection  is  the  follow- 
ing inscription  : — 

1798 

Erected  through  the  efforts  of  the  Young 
Ireland  Society  to  perpetuate  the  memory 
of  the  gallant  men  of  1798,  1803,  '48,  and 
'67 — who  fought  and  died  in  the  wars  of 
Ireland  to  recover  her  sovereign  independ- 
ence and  to  inspire  the  youth  of  our  coun- 
try to  follow  in  their  patriotic  footsteps 
and  imitate  their  heroic  example,  "  and  right- 
eous   men    will    make    our    land    a    nation 


Unveiled  St.  Patrick's  Day,  1906,  by  the  Revd. 

P.  F.  Kavanagh,  o.f.m..  President,  Cork  Young 

Ireland  Society. 


MONUMENTUM   AERE   PERENNIUS     141 
On  the  other  side  are  the  following  words  ; — 

We  must  not  fail,  we  must  not  fail, 

However  force  or  fraud  assail ; 

By  honour,  pride,  and  policy, 

By  heaven  itself,  we  must  be  free ; 

Be  sure  the  great  God  never  planned 

For  slumbering  slaves,  a  home  so  grand. — ^Davis. 

If  I  could  grasp  the  fires  of  hell  in  my  hands,  I  would  hurl 
them  in  the  face  of  my  country's  enemies. 

John  Mitchell. 

I  looked  from  these  tremendous  words  to  the 
gentle  colonel  at  my  side,  who,  holding  eye-glasses 
to  his  nose,  was  speUing  out  the  words  for,  I  sup- 
pose, the  fiftieth  time  in  his  Hfe.  I  inquired  if  the 
Protestants  of  the  neighbourhood  did  not  resent 
the  challenge,  the  rather  bloodthirsty  menace 
impHed  by  this  inscription.  He  put  away  his 
glasses,  looked  up  with  a  smile,  and  answered,  to 
my  considerable  surprise,  that  among  the  many 
names  of  patriots  engraved  on  the  stone  was  a 
plentiful  number  of  fire-eating  Protestants. 

Of  the  four  names  at  the  four  corners,  at  foot 
of  the  statues,  two  are  Protestants  —  Thomas 
Davis,  whose  verse  is  quoted  above,  and  the  famous 
Wolfe  Tone.  Among  the  hundred  or  so  patriots 
whose  names  are  enumerated  under  the  three 
memorable  years,  1803,  1848,  and  1867,  twenty- 
three  were  certainly  Protestants,  and  perhaps  there 
were  others,  for  it  is  by  no  means  assured  that 


142     MONUMENTUM   AERE    PERENNroS 

every  other  name  on  the  phnth  stands  for  a  Catholic. 
But  twenty-three  of  the  glorious  host  were  un- 
doubted Protestants. 

John  Mitchell,  whose  fiery  words  are  cut  into 
the  stone,  was  a  Protestant,  and  among  the  other 
Protestants  I  found  such  names  as  Lord  Edward 
FitzGerald,  General  Holt,  the  Rev.  John  Mitchell, 
and  Catherine  Countess  of  Queensbury,  the  last  a 
very  gallant  "  man." 

We  are  apt  to  imagine,  because  a  political  organ- 
ization in  the  north  of  Ireland  has  shouted  the 
false  rendering  so  vociferously  and  so  continually 
into  our  EngHsh  ears,  that  Nationalism  in  Ireland 
is  only  and  entirely  a  synonym  for  Jesuitical  Catho- 
licism. But  here  in  Cork  is  a  monument  that  cor- 
rects this  false  notion.  It  was  a  vitrioHc  Protestant 
who  wanted  to  hurl  the  fires  of  heU  in  England's 
face,  and  a  Rudyard  Kipling  of  Irish  Protestantism 
who  exclaimed : — 

Be  sure  the  great  God  never  planned 
For  slumbering  slaves,  a  home  so  grand. 

Protestantism,  with  aU  due  deference  to  so 
eminent  an  authority  as  Sir  Edward  Carson — 
who,  by  the  way,  was  once  alarmed  by  fire  in  the 
city  of  Cork — is  not  destructive  of  nationahty  and 
patriotism. 

As  we  walked  away  the  colonel  told  me  that  such 
language  as  burns  on  the  monument  is  now  com- 


MONUMENTUM    AERE    PERENNIUS      143 

pletely  out  of  fashion.  There  is  very  Httle  rhetoric  in 
modern  Irish  politics,  he  told  me ;  business  men 
have  taken  the  matter  out  of  the  hands  of  priests 
and  poets,  and  these  hard-headed  gentlemen  discuss 
Home  R-ule  from  the  standpoint  of  trade  ;  it  is 
a  matter  of  business. 

He  smiled  at  the  idea  of  Catholic  intolerance, 
and  told  me  he  had  no  better  or  more  agreeable 
friends  in  the  neighbourhood  than  these  HbeUed 
Cathohcs.  "  All  that  sort  of  thing — ^you'll  forgive 
me  for  saying  so — is  tommy-rot."  My  stay  in  Cork 
confirmed  this  judgment. 

I  met  at  the  house  where  I  was  staying  just  out- 
side the  town — a  house  on  a  wooded  hiU  whose 
windows  and  balconies  look  towards  the  sunset 
across  a  curving  river  and  a  wide  stretch  of  meadow- 
land  ghmmering  far  away  to  fold  upon  fold  of  distant 
hiUs — a  most  amiable  and  cheerful  company  com- 
posed of  CathoHcs  and  Protestants.  The  whole 
atmosphere  of  that  house,  with  its  babies  and 
flowers,  its  pets  and  toys,  its  music  and  literature, 
its  hospitality  and  its  cheerful  domesticity,  was 
quite  charming  and  convincing ;  one  could  not 
mix  with  the  family  and  its  guests,  could  not  share 
in  that  kind  and  hospitable  hfe,  beUeving  for  a 
moment  the  wicked  calumny  of  CathoHc  intoler- 
ance. It  would  have  been  like  suspecting  an  Enghsh 
hostess  of  steahng  from  one's  dressing-case,  or  an 
English  host  of  cheating  at  cards. 


144      MONUMENTUM    AERE    PERENNIUS 

To  know  the  Irish  people  one  must  stay  in  their 
houses  and  share  in  their  domestic  Hfe.  One  must 
not  merely  discuss  poUtical  opinions,  but  must 
pay  visits  to  the  nursery,  perambulate  the  garden, 
go  a-shopping  with  one's  hostess,  take  pleasure  in 
the  pictures  and  furniture,  if  possible  make  toffee, 
or  toast  barm-brach,  at  the  schoolroom  fire.  The 
home-life  of  Ireland,  among  the  upper  classes,  the 
middle  classes,  and  the  peasantry,  seems  to  me 
entirely  beautiful  and  pure  ;  here  and  there  one 
miay  be  conscious  of  modern  vulgarity,  an  en- 
croachment of  Smart  ideas  ;  here  and  there  one 
may  be  harassed  by  a  note  of  provincialism,  or 
troubled  by  an  effort  to  obscure  normal  simphcity 
with  a  show  of  prodigahty  to  impress  the  EngUsh 
visitor  ;  but  on  the  whole,  whithersoever  I  went, 
my  reception  was  kind  and  warm-hearted  ;  I  was 
made  to  feel  myself  a  welcome  guest,  and  I  en- 
countered in  most  genial,  kindly  homes  men  and 
women  who  were  grateful  to  God  for  existence  and 
devoted  to  domestic  hfe. 

At  a  dinner-party  in  this  particular  house  there 
was  a  white-haired  but  young-looking  professional 
man,  whose  low  voice  and  modest  demeanour, 
whose  rather  timid  and  self-effacing  manner,  for 
some  reason  or  another,  suggested  to  my  mind  the 
character  of  Tom  Pinch.  I  discovered  that  he  is 
devoted  to  children,  but  has  never  married ; 
he  supports  by  his  profession  his  mother  and  sisters, 


MONIJMENTUM   AERE   PERENNroS      145 

living  a  very  quiet  and  retired  life,  except  for  politics 
in  which  he  plays  an  occasional  and  somewhat  lead- 
ing part. 

I  became  better  acquainted  with  this  agreeable 
person,  and  we  went  a  trip  together  to  the  beautiful 
harbour  of  Queenstown.  He  took  a  great  deHght 
in  pointing  out  to  me  the  lovely  views  from  our 
carriage  window,  speaking  softly  and  endearingly, 
as  one  who  has  come  to  patriotism  through  the 
door  of  nature  worship.  He  loves  the  great  river 
winding  down  to  the  sea,  the  roUing  hills,  the 
deep  woods,  the  fields  that  glow  Hke  emeralds 
in  sunUght,  and  the  Httle  whitewashed  villages 
that  nestle  at  the  river's  edge.  He  loves  them 
because  they  are  lovable  ;  and  because  they 
are  lovable  he  loves  Ireland,  loves  her  as  the 
gracious  creation  of  the  God  he  worships,  and 
as  the  land  of  the  people  and  the  race  whose 
reUgion  and  sentiments  his  soul  has  inherited  with 
its  body. 

"  I  have  just  received,"  he  said  to  me,  "  a  letter 
from  a  very  old  emigrant  in  the  United  States." 
He  drew  the  letter  from  his  pocket.  "  I  think  you 
will  be  touched  by  the  love  it  expresses  for  Ireland, 
and  struck,  too,  by  the  change  which  time  has 
effected  in  the  anger  and  hard  thoughts  of  ancient 
days.  Would  you  like  to  hear  it  ?  Shall  I  read  it 
to  you  ?  " 

And  he  read  the  whole  letter,  and  afterwards  he 


146     MONUMENTUM   AERE   PERENNIUS 

copied  out  for  me  the  passage  which  I  here  set  down 
in  print : — 

I  see  that  Churchill  is  out  strong  for  Home 
Rule.  God  speed  their  efforts.  I  saw  that  Red- 
mond had  an  accident ;  I  hope  he  is  now  better 
and  that  he  wiU  live  to  preside  over  a  ParUament 
House  in  Dublin.  It  is  about  time  that  England 
should  do  right.  Many  is  the  prayer  I  prayed  for 
Ireland  for  sixty  years,  and  if  some  of  these 
prayers  were  heard  I  would  now  be  sorry  for 
England.  But  now  that  I  am  getting  old  I  am 
prajdng  God  to  forgive  my  enemies.  How  often 
during  our  Civil  War  I  thought,  if  it  could 
be  possible,  how  much  better  it  would  be  if  it  was 
a  war  with  England  instead  of  a  war  between 
brothers,  and  how  much  more  "  ginger  "  we  five 
brothers  whom  our  mother  gave  to  the  Southern 
Confederacy  could  have  put  into  the  fight  to 
settle  old  scores.  Well,  thanks  be  to  God,  our 
country  is  now  at  peace  and  offers  a  good  living 
for  aU  who  are  not  too  lazy  to  work  for  it. 

In  my  opinion  there  is  no  such  country  on 
earth,  and  with  Home  Rule  for  Ireland  there  is 
no  reason  why  you  should  not  do  as  weU.  God 
helps  those  who  try  to  help  themselves. 

He  spoke  of  the  love  for  Ireland  which  haunts 
the  emigrant  in  ahen  lands.  Men  go  away,  earn 
high  wages,  live  a  fuller  and  more  exciting  Hfe, 


MONUMENTUM    AERE    PERENNIUS      147 

but  their  hearts  are  with  Ireland.  Even  when  the 
habit  of  America  has  hardened  in  their  nature,  and 
when  to  return  and  live  in  Ireland  would  be  some- 
thing of  a  torture,  the  emigrant  is  still  conscious 
of  a  love  and  a  reverence  for  his  homeland  which 
is  almost  religious  in  its  character.  This  love  is 
indestructible.  It  is  the  monument  more  lasting 
than  brass  or  stone. 

"  I  often  think,"  he  said,  "  of  the  letters  which 
are  continually  crossing  the  great  Atlantic  from 
America,  and  which  find  their  way  into  our  smallest 
and  remotest  villages.  How  much  love  they  con- 
tain !  How  much  patriotism  !  I  have  seen  many 
of  those  letters,  and  they  quicken  my  love  for 
Ireland  more  than  all  the  speeches  of  poUticians 
on  our  sufferings  and  wrongs.  They  are  so  wist- 
ful with  longing,  so  profound  with  loyalty  to  the 
home.  I  suppose  many  emigrants  of  other  lands 
send  money  to  the  old  folks,  but  I  wonder  if  so 
many  send  so  much  as  our  poor  Irish  scattered 
all  over  the  world.  Home  Rule  would  not  stop, 
but  it  would  check  emigration,  and,  what  is  so  im- 
portant, it  would  alter  the  character  of  that  exodus. 
I  think  if  we  felt  ourselves  to  be  a  free  people  and 
not  a  subject  people,  our  young  men  would  go  more 
cheerfully  to  other  lands,  would  hold  themselves 
there  with  more  pride,  and  would  hasten  their  return 
to  the  motherland.  I  feel  sure  that  all  the  love 
for  Ireland  which  now  exists  wistfully  and  rather 


148     MONUMENTUM   AERE    PERENNTUS 

tragically  in  other  countries  would  become  more 
vital  and  glad  and  serviceable  to  Irish  nationaUty, 
if  Ireland  were  free." 

It  was  plain  from  what  he  told  me  that  the  bitter- 
ness and  hate  of  the  older  generation  of  emigrants 
is  dying  out.  Irishmen  recognize  that  modern 
England,  innocent  of  past  bloodshed,  extortion, 
and  cruelty,  is  striving  her  hardest  to  restore  the 
broken  fortunes  of  their  motherland.  They  have 
a  growing  respect  for  this  new  England,  but  they 
cannot  love  her  and  they  cannot  come  back  proudly 
from  across  the  seas  until  Ireland  is  as  free  as 
South  Africa,  Canada,  and  Australia. 

Mr.  G.  K.  Chesterton,  in  some  ways  surely  one 
of  the  most  original,  penetrating,  and  wholesome 
of  modern  thinkers,  has  defined  as  England's  failure 
in  the  government  of  Ireland  her  determination  to 
ignore  Ireland's  sense  of  nationahty.     He  says  : — 

"  I  am  quite  certain  that  Scotland  is  a  nation ; 
I  am  quite  certain  that  nationaUty  is  the  key  of 
Scotland;  I  am  quite  certain  that  aU  our  success 
with  Scotland  has  been  due  to  the  fact  that  we 
have  in  spirit  treated  it  as  a  nation.  I  am  quite 
certain  that  Ireland  is  a  nation.  I  am  quite  cer- 
tain that  nationahty  is  the  key  of  Ireland;  I  am 
quite  certain  that  all  our  failure  in  Ireland  arose 
from  the  fact  that  we  could  not  in  spirit  treat  it  as 
a  nation.  It  would  be  difficult  to  find,  even  among 
the  innumerable  examples  that  exist,  a  stronger 


MONUMENTUM   AERE    PERENNIUS      149 

example  of  the  immensely  superior  importance  of 
sentiment,  to  what  is  called  practicality,  than  this 
case  of  the  two  sister  nations.  It  is  not  that  we 
have  encouraged  a  Scotchman  to  be  rich ;  it  is  not 
that  we  have  encouraged  a  Scotchman  to  be  active  ; 
it  is  not  that  we  have  encouraged  a  Scotchman  to 
be  free.  It  is  that  we  have  quite  definitely  en- 
couraged a  Scotsman  to  be  Scotch." 

The  reaUty  of  an  Irishman's  love  for  Ireland  was 
brought  home  to  my  mind  on  many  occasions,  but 
by  no  one,  perhaps,  so  simply  and  convincingly  as 
by  this  man  in  Cork  who  spoke  of  Irish  emigrants 
so  tenderly,  and  expressed  so  earnestly  his  hope  for 
a  united  and  contented  British  Empire. 

I  learned  from  this  quiet  and  thoughtful  man 
to  reahze  how  great  a  blessing  hes  in  store  for 
England  when  the  vast  numbers  of  Irishmen  in  the 
United  States  feel  themselves  related  to  the  British 
Empire.  If  any  man  loves  England,  and  has  known 
the  hunger  for  England  in  a  distant  country,  he 
will  understand  the  heart  of  the  Irish  emigrant. 

Over  thirty-one  thousand  emigrants  left  Ireland 
last  year. 


CHAPTER  Vin 

PETTY  LARCENIES 

OOON  after  my  return  from  Ireland  I  was 
^  talking  one  day  to  an  English  clergyman 
whose  political  judgment  I  imagined  to  be  as  just 
and  tolerant  as  his  culture  appeared  to  be  wide  and 
liberal.  What  was  my  surprise,  then,  to  find  this 
amiable,  broad-minded  gentleman  convinced,  and 
unshakable  in  his  conviction,  that  CathoHc  tyranny 
not  only  wiU  become  a  fact  under  Home  Rule, 
but  is  actually  a  fact  at  the  present  time  ! 

I  gave  him  overwhelming  proof  to  the  contrary, 
and  pressed  him  to  tell  me  how  he  has  brought 
himself  to  believe  so  unworthy  an  imputation  on 
Irish  character. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,"  he  repHed,  "  from  whom  I 
get  my  information  ;  but  I  have  in  my  possession, 
sent  to  me  from  authoritative  men  in  Ireland,  in- 
numerable cases  of  CathoHc  tyranny  towards 
Protestants.  The  documents  are  private  and  con- 
fidential or  I  would  show  them  to  you.  They  have 
made  a  profound  impression  upon  me.  Yes,  they  are 
printed  documents." 

160 


PETTY   LARCENIES  151 

Does  this  mean,  one  would  like  to  know,  that 
Protestants  in  Ireland  are  secretly  circularizing  the 
clergy  of  England,  and  in  their  zeal  for  the  Union 
are  blackening  the  character  of  their  feUow-Chris- 
tians  in  Ireland  ?  If  this  is  the  case,  I  can  imagine 
nothing  more  unworthy  in  the  long  unworthy 
history  of  Protestantism  in  Ireland.  Cromwell's 
bloody  club  was  an  honest  human  weapon.  But 
these  whispered,  confidential,  and  backstair  scan- 
daHzings  of  a  miserable  sectarianism  can  proceed 
only  from  the  Father  of  Lies.  To  associate  these 
petty  larcenies  of  character,  these  contemptible 
and  furtive  slanders  of  clerical  backbiters  with 
anything  consecrated  by  the  Character  of  Jesus 
is  an  infamy,  almost  a  blasphemy. 

Let  me  give  the  reader,  in  this  place,  the  written 
statement  of  a  Presbyterian  minister  living  in  the 
south  of  Ireland  who  has  never  once  wavered  in 
his  allegiance  to  Protestantism,  and  who  is  now 
at  the  present  time  as  out  of  harmony  with  Cathohc 
doctrine  as  when  he  began  his  ministry. 

The  following  letter  was  written  hurriedly  in 
answer  to  certain  questions  I  addressed  to  my 
correspondent,  but  it  gives  an  honest  man's  verdict, 
clearly,  simply,  and  convincingly. 

"  It  is  difficult,"  writes  this  Presbyterian  minister, 
"  to  get  behind  the  reserve  that  shuts  out  the  priest 
from  ordinary  social  Hfe.  But  it  has  been  my 
peculiar  privilege  to  have  done  so  in  one  or  two 


152  PETTY    LARCENIES 

instances,  and  to  have  gained  confidences  that 
I  greatly  prize.  I  have  made  close  personal  friends 
among  the  priests,  and  I  am  glad  to  be  able  to  say, 
from  what  inside  knowledge  I  have,  that  morally 
there  is  no  finer  type  of  man  in  Ireland. 

*'  The  priest  is  a  good  fellow  ;  and  as  a  rule  has 
none  of  those  bitter  prejudices  (perhaps  I  should 
say  none  of  that  bitter  intolerance)  that  so  often 
disfigures  his  Protestant  confrere. 

"  There  is  in  every  corner  of  Munster  a  Protes- 
tantism— ^more  or  less  numerous — but  always  watch- 
ful and  suspicious  of  Romanism,  and  especially  of 
the  priest.  And  in  my  opinion  there  is  no  stronger 
testimony  to  the  moral  worth  of  the  Priesthood 
than  the  fact  that  that  Protestantism  has  no  word 
of  disapproval  for  the  priest  individually. 

"  At  our  last  Presbytery  meeting  in  Co.  Kerry 
(September,  1911)  the  local  lay  representatives  of  the 
Presbyterian  Church  (gathered  from  all  over  Kerry) 
were  asked  by  one  of  the  ministers  :  '  Is  there  any 
interference  with  you  on  the  part  of  the  priests,  or 
any  hindrance  to  your  work  because  you  are  Protes- 
tants ?  ' — or  words  to  that  effect.  And  the  answer, 
prompt  and  ready  from  each  one,  was,  '  None.' 

"  Our  Presbytery  covers  the  counties  of  Cork 
and  Kerry,  and  part  of  Waterford,  and  never  for 
the  last  twenty  years,  while  I  have  been  a  member, 
has  there  been  a  single  complaint  of  priestly  inter- 
ference or  intolerance  of  any  kind. 


PETTY   LARCENIES  153 

"As  to  the  priest's  spiritual  influence,  my 
opinion  is  that  it  is  greater  to-day  than  ever, 
because  it  is  more  enlightened  and  spiritual. 

"  The  priest  does  not  exercise  to-day  the  influence 
that  he  did  formerly  in  social  and  pohtical  affairs. 

"  But  those  CathoHcs  who  disagree  with  the 
priests  in  their  political  views  are  at  the  same  time 
loyal  and  true  to  them  spiritually.  The  priest 
himself  knows  this  and  readily  admits  that  they 
are  '  good  CathoHcs.' 

*'  And  while  it  is  difficult  for  the  priest  to  keep 
out  of  pontics,  as  it  is  for  the  parson  to  keep  out 
of  pohtics,  the  knowledge  of  the  spiritual  loyalty 
of  his  opponents  has  caused  him  to  moderate  his 
opinions  and  to  restrain  his  opposition.  And  under 
Home  Rule  this  will  become  a  great  national  asset 
and  will  either  rend  the  Church  or  drive  the  priest 
out  of  pohtics  altogether.  It  has  had  the  latter 
result  in  Cork,  where  the  division  in  the  Irish  party 
is  most  felt. 

"  In  seeking  to  exercise  his  influence,  therefore, 
the  priest  has  been  compelled  to  work  along  spiritual 
lines ;  and  any  speeches  that  I  have  read  by  the 
poHtically  minded  priests  of  the  South  would  not 
go  to  show  that  they  seek  to  exercise  a  greater 
influence  over  their  people  than  our  leading  poUtical 
parsons  in  BeKast  and  the  North." 

On  the  subject  of  moraHty  he  writes  : — 

"  The  priests  and  nuns  are  watchful  and  in  close 


154  PETTY    LARCENIES 

touch  with  the  people.  And  the  people  themselves 
have  great  natural  gifts  for  amusements.  And 
that  seems  to  me  to  protect  them  from  grossness 
and  sordidness.  And  besides,  reUgion  has  a  real 
restraining  power  in  their  lives." 

He  speaks  of  Protestants  who  have  stayed  as 
pajdng-guests  in  Roman  CathoUc  Homes,  and 
mentions  the  impression  made  upon  them  by 
young  people  who,  after  a  night  of  dancing  or  card- 
playing,  go  off  to  Mass  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning 
before  beginning  the  day's  duties. 

"  Indeed,"  he  goes  on,  "  some  of  the  young 
men  connected  with  my  own  congregation  who 
came  here  from  Glasgow  and  have  become  Roman 
CathoHcs  have  told  me  that  it  was  the  place  given 
to  rehgion  and  its  influence  on  the  Hves  of  their 
Roman  Catholic  companions  that  induced  them 
to  change. 

"  Personally  I  am  at  the  other  extreme  from 
Romanism.  But  this  has  been  my  experience. 
Many  young  men  in  the  city  have  joined  the  Roman 
Cathohc  Church,  and  while  I  know  that  Protes- 
tantism has  ascribed  less  worthy  motives,  yet  I 
beheve  that  in  this  case  also  there  must  have 
been  some  very  sufficient  cause  to  make  them  brave 
the  anger  of  parents  and  relatives  and  friends.  I 
have  a  very  high  opinion  of  the  moral  life  of  the 
Cathohc  young  men  of  this  city.  They  are  a  credit 
to  their  Church. 


PETTY    LARCENIES  155 

"Under  Home  Rule  nothing  will  be  different, 
nothing  very  much  for  a  time  :  but  everything  will 
become  different. 

"  There  will  be  no  intolerance,  unless  what  is 
provoked  by  the  insensate  hate  of  a  few  in  Ulster. 
But  I  have  very  Httle  fear  of  that  even.  .  .  . 

"  What  I  have  said  of  the  priests,  the  people, 
and  their  rehgion  will  show  you  that  I  have  no 
fear  whatever  for  Protestantism,  except  that  it  may 
become  merged  in  the  predominant  Romanism,  as 
it  has  so  often  done  before. 

"  Of  course  there  is  a  considerable  outcry  on  the 
part  of  the  old  ascendancy  party  who  are  still  imbued 
with  the  opinion  that  it  is  their  right  to  rule,  but 
they  will  find  their  rightful  place  by  and  by,  and 
will  become  a  great  strength  in  the  community. 

"For,  should  prosperity  follow  the  introduction 
of  Home  Rule,  as  we  have  every  reason  to  believe 
it  will,  the  Protestants  will  by  reason  of  their 
superior  business  organizations  and  methods  benefit 
more  than  the  CathoUcs. 

"  Protestantism  in  the  South  at  least  has  no 
fear  of  Home  Rule,  and  would  gladly  welcome 
a  settlement  of  that  much-discussed  question." 

Thus  writes  an  honest,  just  man.  Throughout 
my  own  wanderings  in  Ireland  I  encountered  no 
single  case  of  CathoHc  intolerance,  and  even  by 
those  Protestants  who  are  opposed  to  Home  Rule 


156  PETTY   LARCENIES 

with  real  energy,  I  never  heard  the  CathoHc  priest 
maligned.  I  was  told  that  he  is  often  a  mere 
rustic,  an  unmannerly  bumpkin,  an  ignorant, 
common  person  swollen  by  a  sense  of  Apostolic 
importance — this  from  people  incHned  to  emphasize 
social  superiority — but  not  once,  face  to  face  with 
the  actual  facts  of  Irish  Hfe,  did  I  hear  one  word 
of  attack  concerning  Catholic  intolerance  or  the 
morahty  of  the  CathoHc  priest. 

If  the  reader  wiU  allow  me  to  do  so,  I  should  hke 
to  make  what  members  of  ParUament  call  a  personal 
statement.  I  have  written  so  often  on  religious 
questions  that  I  really  owe  to  those  among  my 
present  readers  who  are  acquainted  with  my  former 
work  something  of  an  explanation  as  touching  the 
position  I  take  up  on  this  question  of  CathoHc 
and  Protestant  in  Ireland. 

Until  I  visited  Ireland  my  impression  was  that 
Irish  CathoHc  priests  resembled  ItaHan  CathoHc 
priests,  Spanish  CathoHc  priests,  and  the  more 
ignorant  of  French  CathoHc  priests.  I  went  to  the 
country  under  this  impression,  and  with  the  further 
notion  that  aU  the  backwardness,  poverty,  laziness, 
and  discontent  which  I  had  been  so  often  told 
existed  in  the  south  of  Ireland  was  largely  attribut- 
able to  the  influence  of  priests. 

I  have  inherited,  and  experience  of  the  world  has 
deepened,  an  almost  violent  antipathy  to  the 
Roman  Church.    Occasionally  I  have  encountered, 


PETTY    LARCENIES  167 

in  England  and  abroad,  CathoKcs  whom  I  liked  very- 
much,  Cathohcs  who  seemed  to  me  charming, 
dehghtful,  and  quite  sensible  people.  But  my 
aversion  from  Rome  remained  constant.  The 
dogmas  of  that  Church  have  ever  seemed  to  me  only 
one  more  degree  preposterous  and  unholy  than  so 
great  a  part  of  her  history  has  been  villainous  and 
detestable. 

In  Ireland  I  came  face  to  face  with  this  problem. 
In  the  South,  where  CathoHc  influence  is  supreme, 
the  people  are  almost  enchanting  in  their  sweetness 
of  disposition,  entirely  admirable  in  the  beauty 
and  contentment  of  their  domestic  Hfe,  wonderful 
beyond  aU  other  nations  in  the  wholesomeness  and 
sanctity  of  their  chastity.  In  this  place  I  make 
no  comparison  of  the  South  with  the  North — that 
I  reserve  for  a  later  chapter  ;  my  present  purpose 
is  to  speak  solely  of  the  South.  Instead  of  a  lazy, 
thriftless,  discontented,  and  squaHd  people — as  I 
had  imagined  them  to  be — the  Irish  of  the  South 
won  my  sympathy  and  compelled  my  admiration 
by  qualities  the  very  opposite.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  these  hard-working,  simple-hving,  family- 
loving,  and  most  warm-hearted  people  had  done 
what  we  in  England  have  largely  failed  to  do,  even 
in  our  villages,  to  wit,  solved  the  problem  of  life. 
The  charm  which  every  traveller  feels  in  the  south 
of  Ireland  is  the  character  of  the  Irish  people  ;  and 
my  investigation  forced  me  to  the  judgment  that 


168  PETTY    LARCENIES 

this  character  is  the  culture  of  Irish  Catholicism. 
My  problem  lay,  therefore,  in  squaring  the  admira- 
tion I  felt  for  these  gracious  people  with  my  detesta- 
tion of  the  Church  which  has  guarded  Irish  character 
from  the  dawn  of  its  history. 

I  was  compelled  to  admit  that  I  had  greatly 
misjudged  the  Catholic  Church.  My  conscience 
would  not  let  me  fence  with  this  conviction.  I  saw 
that  I  had  blundered  by  unconsciously  entertain- 
ing the  foohsh  notion  that  because  one  branch  of 
the  CathoHc  Church  is  scandalous,  or  one  era  of 
Cathohc  history  is  abominable,  therefore  every 
branch  is  scandalous,  and  every  era  of  CathoHc 
history  to  the  end  of  time  must  remain  abominable. 

I  came  to  see  vividly  and  clearly  what  most  of 
us  have  always  suspected,  that  it  is  the  character 
of  the  man,  and  not  the  set  of  dogmas  to  which 
he  pins  his  faith,  that  makes  the  Christian.  What 
a  man  thinks,  what  a  man  believes  in  the  region 
of  dogma,  seems  to  exercise  almost  no  influence 
whatever  upon  the  Christianity  of  his  hfe.  It  does 
not  matter,  says  Goethe,  what  you  beHeve,  but  how 
you  beHeve.  It  is  the  spirit  in  which  a  man  gives 
his  heart  to  God,  not  the  inteUectual  attitude  of 
his  theology,  which  determines  the  character  of  his 
Hfe.  I  met  many  CathoHcs  aU  over  Ireland,  and 
in  only  one  or  two  cases  did  I  feel  any  sense  of 
uneasiness  or  discontent  in  their  company.  Over 
and  over  again  I  was  humbled  and  abased  by  find- 


PETTY    LARCENIES  159 

ing  how  immeasurably  mean  was  my  experience  of 
spiritual  life  in  comparison  with  the  Hves  of  these 
humble  and  ignorant  CathoHcs,  who  love  God  with 
the  clinging  trustfulness  of  Httle  children. 

But  my  aversion  from  CathoHc  creed  remains. 
I  have  gone  once  more  patiently,  and  with  an  honest 
effort  to  be  just,  into  the  question  of  Catholic 
dogma,  and  I  find  myself  more  puzzled  than  ever 
before  in  my  hfe  to  account  for  the  fact  of  any 
man  gifted  with  even  a  Httle  knowledge  being  able 
to  accept,  to  accept  so  that  they  subdue  his  Hfe, 
these  amazing  and  humiHating  superstitions  of 
magic- worship. 

Such,  then,  is  my  position.  InteUectuaUy  I  am 
as  out  of  sympathy  with  Catholics  as  I  should  be 
out  of  sympathy  with  a  man  who  believes  the 
world  to  be  flat.  I  can  no  easier  get  on  intellectual 
good  terms  with  a  CathoHc  than  with  an  orthodox 
Hindu.  InteUectuaUy  I  am  much  more  in  sym- 
pathy with  Mussulmans  than  with  CathoHcs.  No 
wiUingness  to  be  gracious  and  modest  and  con- 
ciHatory  can  save  me,  in  the  company  of  CathoHc 
theologians,  from  a  feeHng  if  not  of  scorn,  at  any 
rate  of  amazement  and,  I  fear,  of  pity. 

Nevertheless,  I  should  feel  myself  guilty  of  a 
crime  if  I  wrote  one  single  word  with  the  object  of 
weakening  an  Irishman's  faith  in  his  Church.  So 
beautiful  is  the  influence  of  that  Church,  so  alto- 
gether sincere  and  attractive  is  the  spiritual  life  of 


160  PETTY    LARCENIES 

Catholic  Ireland,  that  I  for  one,  rather  than  lift 
a  finger  to  disturb  it,  like  the  man  in  the  parable 
would  stand  afar  off,  bow  my  head  upon  my  breast, 
and  utter  the  honest  prayer,  God  be  merciful  to 
me  a  sinner. 

Let  the  Protestant  reader  ask  himself  this  ques- 
tion, Whether  his  admiration  goes  to  the  CathoHc 
priest  Hving  with  the  peasants  of  Ireland,  sharing 
their  poverty,  and  devoting  himself  to  the  beauty 
and  chastity  of  Ireland's  spiritual  life,  or  to  the 
Irish  clerical  poHtician  who  secretly  slanders  in 
England  these  fellow-Christians,  with  no  other 
object  in  mind  than  to  preserve  his  own  social 
ascendancy  ? 


CHAPTER  IX 
A  CASE   OF  PERSECUTION 

AFTER  spending  many  weeks  in  Ireland,  after 
going  here,  there,  and  nearly  everywhere,  after 
meeting  numerous  people  circumstanced  to  know 
the  truth  of  Irish  social  life,  I  returned  to  England 
with  not  one  single  case  of  CathoUc  persecution  in 
my  notebook.  Among  all  the  good  and  earnest 
Protestants  I  met  in  Ireland,  none  could  tell  me  a 
single  story  of  Catholic  bigotry.  It  is  most  im- 
portant for  the  liberal-minded  EngHsh  Protestant 
who  reads  this  chapter  to  remember  that  no  Irish 
Protestant  ever  complained  to  me  of  CathoUc  per- 
secution, or  hinted  at  CathoUc  intolerance. 

But  now  the  case  is  different.  A  friend  in 
England  to  whom  I  had  expressed  my  conviction 
that  CathoUc  persecution  is  a  rather  shabby  WoH, 
a  rather  frayed  and  tattered  Bogy  manufactured 
in  Belfast  with  chemises,  comfortable  Atlantic 
liners,  and  pocket-handkerchiefs,  has  sent  me 
certain  printed  matter  which  witnesses  to  the  fact, 
so  he  holds,  of  CathoUc  persecution.  My  friend 
begs  me  to  find  time  for  the  reading  of  his  docu- 

I.  161 


162  A   CASE    OF    PERSECUTION 

ments.  He  is  sure  that  I  shall  be  persuaded, 
being  an  honest  man,  that  CathoHc  persecution  is 
a  very  true  and  very  awful  fact  of  Irish  social  Hfe. 

Now,  I  rejoice  in  these  documents  with  all  my 
heart  because  they  prove  in  a  most  remarkable 
manner  the  very  opposite  truth  of  which  my  friend 
is  convinced.  They  prove  that  Irish  Catholics  are 
the  most  tolerant  and  poHte  people  in  the  world, 
and  that  at  least  some  Irish  Protestants  are  the 
most  impohtic  people  on  the  face  of  this  kindly 
earth.  I  could  wish  nothing  better  for  my  thesis 
than  space  to  print  these  extraordinary  documents 
in  extenso. 

This  case  of  CathoUc  persecution  concerns  the 
town  of  Limerick.  The  martyr  in  question  is  a 
Protestant  medical  man.  Dr.  Joseph  Long.  He 
has  been  stoned  in  the  streets,  eggs  have  been 
thrown  at  him,  flour  has  been  emptied  upon  him 
from  top-storey  windows,  crowds  have  followed 
howling  at  his  heels,  and  jarveys  have  refused  to 
drive  him  on  their  cars.  Since  his  arrival  in 
Limerick,  an  event  which  occurred  in  1897,  down 
to  the  year  1903,  this  gentleman  endured  so  merci- 
less a  persecution  that  it  is  a  matter  of  miracle  he 
is  stiU  ahve — ^not  merely  aUve,  but  apparently 
satisfied  with  his  life's  work.  Since  1 904,  so  I  gather, 
he  has  lived  in  peace,  his  only  cross  the  jarveys' 
absolute  refusal  to  take  him  as  a  fare.  His  real 
martyrdom,  therefore,  is  eight  years  old,  a  part 


A    CASE    OF    PERSECUTION  163 

rather  of  ancient  history  than  contemporary  politics. 
But  do  not  let  the  reader  minimize  it  on  account 
of  its  age.  The  same  thing  might  occur  again. 
Under  Home  Rule  it  might  become  even  worse. 
And  the  story  of  it  is  now  being  handed  about  in 
England. 

The  story  is  this  :  An  EngHsh  body  of  people 
known  as  the  Society  for  Irish  Church  Missions,  with 
offices  at  11  Buckingham  Street,  Strand,  London, 
seeks  to  make  proselytes  of  Roman  Catholics  in 
Ireland.  It  believes,  so  I  gather  from  its  documents, 
that  the  CathoHcs  of  Ireland  are  outside  the  pale 
of  Christian  Salvation ;  and,  being  moved  with  a 
great  compassion  for  these  doomed  miUions,  it  sends 
forth  missionaries  to  Ireland,  just  as  other  societies 
send  missionaries  to  China  and  the  West  Coast  of 
Africa.  Irish  CathoHcs  are  regarded  by  this  English 
society  as  heathen,  and  as  heathen  they  are  accord- 
ingly treated.  Whether  it  would  be  nearer  to 
Christ's  instruction  for  these  good  and  wealthy 
people  to  spend  their  money  in  feeding  the  poor  and 
hungry  of  London,  we  will  not  inquire.  They  are 
convinced  that  they  should  employ  people  to  con- 
vert Irish  Cathohcs  to  their  own  particular  notion 
of  EngHsh  Protestantism. 

Dr.  Joseph  Long,  employed  by  this  society,  was 
sent  to  open  a  Medical  Mission  in  Limerick.  He 
took  a  house,  exhibited  a  dispensary  notice-board 
announcing  the  hours  of   "  free  attendance,"  and, 


164  A   CASE    OF   PERSECUTION 

in  his  own  words,  "  opened  our  door  and  awaited 
results,  in  full  confidence  that  God,  who  had  guided 
and  provided  for  us  so  far,  would  also  bring  us 
into  contact  with  needy  souls,  and  send  us  patients." 
He  was  not  disappointed.  "  In  the  quietest  possible 
manner,"  he  relates,  "  the  Mission  commenced  its 
double  work  of  ministering  to  the  sick  and  suffering, 
and  of  pointing  them  to  Jesus  the  great  and  only 
Physician  of  the  soul."  This  double  work,  accord- 
ing to  Dr.  Long,  has  been  wonderfully  blessed  by 
God. 

The  method  of  the  Mission  may  be  gathered 
from  these  words  written  by  the  doctor  :  "  The 
average  attendance  at  the  dispensary  each  day  is 
about  forty — some  mornings  we  have  over  sixty 
patients  to  attend  to.  They  are  first  interested 
and  entertained  by  Mr.  Hare  in  the  waiting-room  ; 
then,  in  turn,  I  have  the  privilege  of  deaHng  with 
them  individually  in  my  consulting-room  ;  then 
*  Sister  Millie '  takes  charge  of  them,  either  dressing 
them  in  the  surgery  or  making  up  their  prescrip- 
tions in  the  dispensary,  and  as  they  leave,  giving 
them  a  parting  word  of  encouragement.  They  are 
followed  to  their  own  homes  by  our  united  prayer 
that  God  may  bless  the  message  they  have  heard 
and  lead  them  to  a  Uvely  faith  in  the  Lord  Jesus." 

Certain  priests  in  Limerick  resented  the  doctor's 
methods.  One  rather  violent  priest — I  restrict  my- 
self entirely  to  Dr.  Long's  account  of  his  martyr- 


A   CASE    OF    PERSECUTION  166 

dom — denounced  the  missioner  from  the  pulpit  and 
publicly  rebuked  him  face  to  face.  Catholics  were 
forbidden  to  visit  the  dispensary.  A  parish  priest 
wrote  a  letter  to  one  of  the  newspapers,  concerning 
Dr.  Long  :  "As  priest  having  charge  of  the  district 
where  he  has  estabhshed  himself,  I  feel  it  my  duty 
to  state  pubhcly  that  he  is  here  for  proselytizing 
purposes.  Dr.  Long  is  simply  using  the  noble  pro- 
fession to  which  he  belongs  as  the  agent  of  a  Society 
that  has  for  its  object  the  perversion  of  Irish 
Catholics,  and  the  sooner  our  poor  are  warned 
against  this  insidious  attempt  on  their  Faith  the 
better." 

The  result  of  this  skirmishing  was  vulgar  strife. 
Dr.  Long  was  boo'd  in  the  street,  he  was  stoned, 
he  was  mocked,  he  was  caUed  "  old  souper."  The 
little  children  marched  to  and  fro  singing,  "  We'll 
hang  Dr.  Long  on  a  sour  apple  tree."  The  women 
scolded  him.  The  men  despised  him.  People  who 
attended  the  dispensary  were  roughly  handled.  In 
one  street-ruction  the  police  made  arrests,  and  the 
case  was  tried  in  court.  The  Resident  Magistrate, 
a  Protestant,  is  reported  to  have  said  on  this  occa- 
sion :  "It  had  been  proved,  not  by  witnesses,  but 
by  Dr.  Long  himself,  that  he  was  the  paid  emissary 
or  agent  of  a  certain  Society  ...  a  paid  official 
coming  there  for  the  purpose  of  proselytism,  and 
there  was  nothing  that  roused  indignation  more 
than  that  word."     You  must  understand,  by  the 


166  A   CASE    OF    PERSECUTION 

way,  why  it  is  the  word  proselytism  arouses  such 
passionate  indignation  in  Ireland.  It  is  not  only 
that  the  Irish  are  obstinate  enough  to  consider 
themselves  Christians,  but  because  during  the  great 
Famine  Protestants  from  England  offered  soup  to 
the  starving  people  on  condition  that  they  renounced 
the  CathoHc  Church.  Hence  the  bitterest  term  of 
contempt  in  the  Irish  CathoUc's  vocabulary — "  old 
souper."  And  to-day  Protestant  ladies  in  Ireland 
able  to  pay  good  wages,  employ  Irish  servant-girls 
in  their  houses,  and  as  soon  as  the  girls  are  accus- 
tomed to  their  rich  and  comfortable  life,  begin  the 
work  of  sapping  their  Catholic  allegiance.  Nearly 
aU  the  "  converts "  from  Rome  are  these  poor 
servant-girls.  That  is  why  the  Irishman  regards 
proselytism  with  such  bitter  contempt  and  with 
such  vehement  detestation. 

On  another  occasion  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  of 
Ireland,  in  charging  the  Grand  Jury  at  Limerick, 
made  the  following  remarks  : — 

I  see  that  the  people  of  this  city  have  been 
somewhat  excited  by  the  presence  of  a  Dr.  Long. 
.  .  .  He  is  an  agent  of  what  I  beheve  is  described 
as  the  Irish  Church  Mission  to  Roman  Catholics. 
He  has  been  mobbed  by  the  people.  Now,  of 
course,  any  violence  on  the  part  of  the  people 
is  whoUy  indefensible  ;  it  is  much  to  be  depre- 
cated.   But  if  the  people  would  take  my  advice 


A   CASE    OF   PERSECUTION  167 

.  .  .  they  would  leave  these  agents  of  that  Society 
entirely  alone.  .  .  .  They  would  not  make  mar- 
tyrs of  them,  because,  gentlemen,  if  they  make 
martjrrs  of  them  they  only  secure  that  the 
monetary  stream  comes  in  greater  volume  from 
England.  .  .  .  The  Protestant  community,  the 
respectable  Protestant  community  of  this  city 
and  of  this  country  do  not  in  any  way  associate 
themselves  with  these  attempts.  .  .  .  The  Irish 
Church  Missions  are  supported  in  England  by 
people  who  are  very  well-meaning,  who  are  very 
rehgious,  but  who  have  no  conception  of  the 
worthlessness  of  the  Irish  Church  Missions  in  this 
country. 

Dr.  Long  entertains  a  different  notion  of  his 
place  in  the  cosmos.  He  quotes  in  his  book,  from 
one  of  "  the  leading  Christian  papers,"  the  following 
Hnes  about  himself — ^not  because  he  is  proud  of 
the  tribute,  but  because  they  give  aU  praise  to  Him 
who  is  "  our  Life,  our  Sweetness,  and  our  Hope  "  : — 

I  see  a  warrior  of  the  Word, 

Calm  'mid  the  crowd's  uproar  ; 
A  Perseus,  with  a  better  sword 

Than  Perseus  ever  bore. 
I  see  him  stand  amid  the  storm — 
Of  noble  port  and  manly  form — 

To  play  the  manly  part. 
That  clear,  calm  light  Is  in  his  eye, 
To  dare,  direct,  defeat,  defy  ; 
Light  from  the  fire  that  cannot  die, 

God  kindled  in  his  heart. 


168  A   CASE    OP   PERSECUTION 

Now,  I  ask  the  English  Protestant  reader  to  con- 
sider what  his  feeUngs  would  be  if  a  society  com- 
posed of  men  of  science  organized  in  his  particular 
parish  a  dispensary,  advertised  free  attendance  for 
the  poor,  and  proceeded  to  use  that  dispensary  for 
teaching  people  not  to  beUeve  their  rehgion  ?  There 
are  many  honest  men  of  science  who  regard  Chris- 
tianity as  a  gross  superstition,  and  who  thoroughly 
beheve  that  clericaUsm  is  a  considerable  obstacle 
in  the  path  of  rational  progress  ;  suppose  these 
men  adopted  the  profession  of  medicine,  ministered 
as  doctors  to  the  poor  of  an  EngHsh  parish,  and 
disseminated  among  their  patients  secular,  lation- 
ahstic,  and  infidel  notions.  What  would  be  the 
feeling  in  that  parish  ? 

There  are  certain  Protestants — happily  growing 
fewer  every  year,  and  never  representative  of  the 
true  Protestantism — who,  in  their  enthusiasm  for  the 
truth  of  their  own  creeds,  do  not  often  enough  pause 
to  consider  the  feeHngs  of  people  to  whom  other 
creeds  appear  equally  true,  equally  precious.  It  is 
one  thing  to  write  critically  or  scornfully  of  these 
creeds,  as  scornfuUy  as  you  please  ;  but  it  is  a 
different  thing  altogether  for  a  missionary  to  em- 
ploy an  active  propaganda  among  the  Christians  he 
is  seeking  to  detach  from  one  Church  to  another — 
if  that  can  ever  be  a  rightful  employment  of  mis- 
sionary zeal.     Such  a  man,  for  instance,  as  Dr. 


A   CASE    OF   PERSECUTION  169 

Joseph  Long,  "  of  noble  port  and  manly  form," 
of  whom  his  poet  says — 

That  clear,  calm  light  is  in  his  eye, 
To  dare,  direct,  defeat,  defy, 

is  evidently  the  very  last  person  in  the  world 
who  would  exercise  those  qualities  of  spirit  which  are 
necessary  to  the  "  winning  "  of  souls.  He  beheves 
that  God  is  yearning  to  save  CathoUcs,  he  boldly 
confesses  himself  a  missionary  sent  by  God,  and 
he  goes  forth  "  to  dare,  direct,  defeat,  defy."  And 
what  is  the  consequence  of  this  martial  spirit  ? 
Mr.  George  Wyndham  said  of  him  in  the  House  of 
Commons  :  "  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  Dr.  Long, 
or  rather  the  Society  which  employs  him,  should 
conscientiously  think  it  right  to  afford  gratuitous 
medical  attendance,  with  the  avowed  object  of 
making  converts  in  the  midst  of  a  Roman  Catholic 
population."  Even  Dr.  Long  says  of  himself  : 
*'  Many  acquaintances  were  shy  about  being  seen 
in  my  company,  and  the  prevaihng  impression  on  all 
sides  was  that  I  was  not  wanted  there  at  all." 
Finally,  if  you  would  see  the  attitude  of  this  per- 
secuted man  towards  the  Church  he  is  set  to  over- 
throw, reflect  upon  these  words  written  by  his  own 
hand  in  the  book  which  contains  the  laudatory 
verses  quoted  above  : — 

The  Word  of  God  and  the  Holy  Spirit  of  God 
alone  can  successfully  overcome  the  power  of 


170  A   CASE    OF   PERSECUTION 

Rome  as  a  system  full  of  arrogance  and  hypocrisy, 
of  superstition  and  idolatry,  of  tyranny  and 
darkness,  and  deliver  from  her  paralysing  slavery 
human  souls,  leading  them  into  the  enjoyment  of 
the  light  and  liberty  of  the  children  of  God. 

Is  it  not  manifest  that  a  man  who  can  write  such 
words,  who  can  issue  such  a  book — his  own  portrait 
forming  the  frontispiece — ^is  the  very  last  person 
in  the  world  to  attract  men  and  women  to  the 
beauty  and  gentleness,  the  humiHty  and  sweet 
reasonableness  of  the  Christian  life  ?  Is  it  not 
manifest  that  for  a  man  of  this  kind  to  go  a-prose- 
lytizing  among  a  Christian  community  whose 
Christianity  has  flowed  into  all  the  nations  of 
Europe,  a  Christianity  which  has  preserved  their 
nationaUty  through  centuries  of  the  grossest  tyranny, 
and  has  so  consecrated  their  kindness  of  heart,  their 
docility,  and  their  chastity  that  they  are  now  things 
proverbial  in  the  two  hemispheres — ^is  it  not  mani- 
fest that  such  a  man  and  such  proselytism — how- 
ever unintentionally — are  in  the  nature  of  insult 
and  affront,  far  more  likely  to  do  incalculable  harm, 
to  create  the  most  damaging  impression,  to  stir  up 
violent  and  angry  feeUngs,  than  to  spread  the  diffi- 
cult but  only  saving  gospel  of  sweetness  and  light  ? 

Compare  this  gentleman's  view  of  CathoHcism 
with  the  opinion  of  those  two  heroic  and  well- 
known  missionaries  to  the  Congo,  the  Rev.  John 


A   CASE    OF    PERSECUTION  171 

Harris  and  his  wife.  "Both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harris," 
says  an  interviewer  in  the  Daily  Chronicle ,  "  bear 
testimony  to  the  wonderful  results  of  the  Cathohc 
missions  in  the  French  and  German  Congo.  .  .  . 
*  With  regard  to  industrial  progress,'  said  Mr. 
Harris,  '  the  Cathohc  missions  are  far  in  advance 
of  the  Protestant  missions.'  "  Cathohcs  at  least 
may  claim  to  be  treated  as  Christians. 

Let  Enghsh  Protestants  honestly  say  whether 
they  would  permit  a  double-working  Roman  Cathohc 
propaganda,  such  as  this,  in  their  own  parishes. 
Would  they  not  hotly  resent  it  if  Irish  Cathohcs 
came  to  England  to  proselytize  their  poor  people 
by  means  of  gratuitous  medical  attendance,  to  teach 
those  poor  people  that  Protestantism  is  "  fuU 
of  arrogance  and  hjrpocrisy,  of  superstition  and 
idolatry,  of  tyranny  and  darkness "  ?  Would 
they  not  feel  justified  in  condemning  the  poor  who 
used  such  a  dispensary,  and  would  there  not  be 
Kensitites  enough  in  the  district  to  work  up  brawls 
and  riots  in  the  streets  ? 

This  apparently  famous,  almost  classical  example 
of  Cathohc  intolerance,  proves,  I  think,  the  extra- 
ordinary meekness  of  the  Irish  people.  A  Roman 
Cathohc  playing  Dr.  Long's  role  in  England  would 
be  driven  from  pillar  to  post,  would  be  hounded  out 
of  the  place,  would  be  fortunate  to  escape  without 
a  broken  Hmb  or  a  cracked  skuU.  But  Dr.  Long 
has  been  in  Limerick  since  1897,  the  eggs  and  stones 


172  A   CASE    OF   PERSECUTION 

ceased  to  hurtle  in  1903,  and  he  is  there  still,  and 
as  long  as  the  Society  which  employs  him  is  in 
existence,  he  is  likely  to  remain  in  his  double 
character  of  doctor  and  proselytizer.  Moreover, 
he  appears  to  be  happy,  satisfied,  and  comfortable. 
Time  may  possibly  plump  that  "  noble  port  and 
manly  form,"  age  perhaps  may  dim  that  many 
d'd  light  in  his  eye,  but  the  good  doctor,  faithful 
to  his  precarious  post,  will  still  "  deal  with " 
patients  in  the  dispensary,  stiU  make  a  dyspepsia 
the  bridge  for  a  heart  to  heart  talk  on  the  sub- 
ject of  the  Scarlet  Woman,  and  still  address 
deMghted  parlour-meetings  in  the  comfortable 
houses  of  Christian  England  which  contain  sup- 
porters of  the  Irish  Church  Missions.  Hear  his 
last  words  : — 

I  wish  to  thank  with  my  whole  heart  aU  those 
dear  friends  everywhere  who  have  supported  the 
work  in  prayer  to  God.  The  work  is  God's,  and 
we  are  all,  whether  directly  or  indirectly  con- 
nected with  it,  co-workers  together  with  Him. 
He  has  graciously  answered  the  prayers  of  His 
children,  and  given  us  the  Victory,  and  "  To 
Him  be  the  glory  for  ever."     Amen. 

I  cannot  think  that  any  truly  reHgious  or  fair- 
minded  Protestant  will  pass  a  verdict  on  this  story 
of  persecution  unfavourable  to  Irish  Cathohcs. 
Dr.  Long's  quarrel  with  the  dogmas  of  Rome  cannot 


A   CASE    OF    PERSECUTION  173 

be  greater  than  my  own — I  can  beKeve  that  few 
men  more  heartily  than  myself  dislike  the  Roman 
version  of  Christianity  or  more  thoroughly  regret 
the  superstitions  of  its  rites — but  I  have  read  this 
story  of  the  Limerick  Medical  Mission  with  humiha- 
tion,  with  anger,  and  with  shame,  read  it  with 
something  more  than  sorrow  and  compassion  for 
misguided  zeal. 

Take,  for  instance — and  then  let  us  have  done 
with  this  sad  business — Dr.  Long's  reflection  on  the 
Limerick  jarveys'  refusal  to  drive  him  on  their 
cars  : — 

I  have  borne  this  petty  and  insulting  persecu- 
tion, trusting  that  God  would  overrule  it  for 
His  glory,  and  use  even  this  car-boycott  to  help 
in  bringing  many  in  this  city  to  a  conviction  of 
sin,  to  faith  in  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ. 

I  know  perfectly  well  what  Dr.  Long  means,  but 
thus  expressed  is  not  this  paragraph  likely  to  seem 
to  an  ordinary  man  the  sentiment  of  a  sanctimo- 
niousness which  he  has  long  been  taught  to  suspect  ? 

Dr.  Long  is  not  insincere ;  it  is,  indeed,  his  very 
sincerity  that  is  so  dangerous.  He  is  no  doubt  a 
good  man,  an  earnest  man,  an  honest  man ;  but  I 
think  he  is  clearly  misguided.  An  arrant  hypocrite 
would  do  no  harm,  but  a  true  and  earnest  man,  mis- 
guided and  zealous  in  a  wrong  direction,  can  do 
little  but  mischief.     He  must  misrepresent,  albeit 


174  A   CASE    OF   PERSECUTION 

unconsciously,  the  Character  of  Christ;  he  must 
ahenate,  albeit  unwillingly,  the  sympathy  of  men 
with  whom  all  Christians  should  be  desirous  of 
working  for  the  victory  of  the  spiritual  life. 

The  attraction  of  Christ  is  universal ;  anything 
which  tends  to  make  it  sectarian,  anything  which 
tends  to  make  it  unattractive,  is  to  be  deplored  and 
condemned.  I  am  convinced  that  every  Hberal- 
minded  Protestant  in  England  and  Ireland  will  take 
this  view  of  the  matter  and  support  my  criticism  of 
Dr.  Long's  pamphlet.  It  is  of  immense  importance, 
when  materialism  is  everywhere  degrading  and 
brutaUzing  life,  for  all  who  profess  and  call  them- 
selves Christians  to  make  reHgion  beautiful  and 
attractive  in  the  eyes  of  mankind. 

With  no  fear  of  its  effect  upon  my  argument, 
rather  the  other  way,  I  set  this  historical  instance 
of  Cathohc  intolerance — the  only  one  I  have  found 
— in  the  midst  of  a  book  inspired  both  by  admiration 
and  affection  for  the  Irish  people. 


CHAPTER  X 
THE   FINE   FLOWER 

AMONG  the  very  agreeable  people  in  the  south 
of  Ireland  who  represent  what  one  may 
designate  as  the  English  Character,  it  is  but  seldom 
that  the  traveller  encounters  a  virulent  or  an 
irreconcilable  attitude  towards  Home  Rule.  They 
have  not  a  sip  of  Orange  in  their  blue  veins. 

Their  attitude  to  the  question  of  Irish  politics 
bears  a  family  Ukeness  to  the  attitude  of  our  own 
well-off  people  in  England  towards  labour  ques- 
tions. They  regard  Irish  poHticians  rather  con- 
temptuously as  agitators,  they  beUeve  that  at  the 
back  of  the  national  movement  there  is  a  sinister 
plot  to  compass  the  downfall  of  the  British  Empire, 
they  quote,  not  vehemently,  but  sorrowfully,  the 
most  bloodthirsty  passages  from  an  antique  Fenian 
oratory,  and  they  assure  you  with  real  honesty, 
and  just  a  touch  of  impatience,  that  farmers  and 
peasants  would  be  perfectly  "  loyal  "  and  contented 
with  things  as  they  are,  if  the  politicians,  the 
"  paid  agitators,"  would  only  leave  them  alone. 

Thus,  aU  over  the  world,  does  Mrs.  Partington 
176 


176  THE   FINE   FLOWER 

flourish  a  mop  in  the  face  of  the  Atlantic.  It  is 
impossible  to  make  these  people  understand  that 
agitators  are  created  by  world  movements,  and  that 
the  desire  for  higher  wages,  better  houses,  and  easier 
conditions  of  labour  is  the  natural  and  righteous 
aspiration  of  industrious  men,  whose  wages  are 
poor,  whose  houses  are  sunless  and  ugly,  whose 
conditions  of  labour  are  dangerous  and  unhealthy. 

We  must  not  be  cross  or  impatient  with  these 
nice  people.  When  a  man  hke  Mr.  Austen  Chamber- 
lain, who  resides,  one  may  say,  on  the  very  river-side 
of  tendency,  solemnly  assures  the  House  of  Commons 
in  a  speech  seriously  praised  by  the  London  news- 
papers, that  the  recent  strike  of  colliers — concurrent 
with  similar  strikes  in  America  and  Germany — was 
due  to  the  rhetoric  of  Mr.  Lloyd  George,  we  must 
surely  agree  that  there  are  certain  minds  incapable 
of  perception,  denied  the  gift  of  vision,  and  pre- 
vented by  some  extraordinary  mental  aberration 
from  forming  rational  judgments.  Certainly  we 
must  not  expect  in  country-houses  and  villages, 
remote  from  a  lemon,  to  discover  over  elegant  tea- 
cups complete  sympathy  with  modern  thought. 

Just  as  in  England  inteUigent  and  honest  people 
hate  the  Labour  Member  of  Parliament,  resist  the 
movement  for  a  Uving  wage,  and  distrust  the 
working-classes  on  whom  they  depend  for  their 
existence,  so  in  Ireland  the  Protestant  EngHsh 
garrison  detest  the  Nationalist  politician,  oppose 


THE   FINE   FLOWER  177 

the  movement  for  self-government,  and  distrust 
the  Cathohc  democracy  whose  toil  and  goodwill  are 
essential  to  their  welfare.  This  distrust  is  almost 
incurable.  It  is  the  spirit  of  a  frontier  town  con- 
tinually in  fear  of  invasion.  We  can  do  nothing 
but  hope  that  a  more  tolerant  and  enlightened 
posterity  wiU  learn  from  experience  that  a  democracy 
determined  to  improve  its  conditions  need  be  no 
more  inimical  to  virtue  and  culture,  need  be  no 
more  godless  and  bloody-minded,  than  a  fortunate 
aristocracy  determined  to  preserve  its  privileges. 

In  England  there  are  people  who  think  that  the 
best  way  to  resist  the  democratic  movement  is  to 
encourage  what  they  caU  "  patriotism."  One  is 
continually  meeting  in  the  country  some  earnest 
soul  who  beheves  that  by  the  singing  of  "  God  save 
the  King  "  as  often  as  possible,  by  teaching  children 
to  salute  the  Flag,  and  by  organizing  parades 
and  pageants  on  the  occasion  of  national  anni- 
versaries— ^never  mind  how  many  slums  there  may 
be,  how  much  sweating,  how  much  inequality  and 
discontent — they  wiU  effectually  slay  the  dragon 
of  Sociahsm.  One  finds  the  same  fatuity  in  Ireland. 
People  make  one  almost  hate  the  tune  of  the 
national  anthem  by  the  inappropriate  occasions 
on  which  they  rise  to  sing  that  rather  un-Christian 
prayer,  almost  make  one  loathe  the  Flag  by  the 
affectionate  cloying  terms  in  which  they  speak  of 
it,  and  almost  make  one  wish  that  England  had 


178  THE   FINE   FLOWER 

never  won  a  battle  or  founded  an  empire,  by  the 
boastfulness  and  triumphant  Csesarism  with  which 
they  drag  these  attainments  into  contemporary 
politics.  They  not  only  do  nothing  to  hinder 
Sociahsm,  but  they  tend  to  make  of  Patriotism 
something  mean,  provincial,  second-rate,  and 
offensive. 

Now,  although  the  Enghsh  garrison  in  the  south 
of  Ireland  are  thus  minded,  one  finds,  on  pressing 
them  in  pohte  conversation  with  rational  argu- 
ments, that  they  are  not  in  reahty  opposed  to  the 
idea  of  self-government.  Like  their  fellows  in 
England,  who  most  wiUingly  admit  that  civihzation 
has  some  very  dirty  corners  and  some  very  ragged 
edges,  and  who  are  even  enthusiastic  for  social 
reform  so  long  as  it  does  not  proceed  from  the 
opposite  side  of  the  House  of  Commons,  the  EngUsh 
garrison  in  the  south  of  Ireland  frankly  confess, 
when  driven  to  it,  that  the  present  system  of 
government  is  expensive,  irritating,  and  unsuccess- 
ful. If  the  Conservative  party  proposed  a  measure 
of  Home  Rule,  and  if  that  measure  assured  the 
social  dominance  of  the  EngUsh  garrison,  those  nice 
people  would  vote  for  it  and  work  for  it  without  a 
moment's  misgiving.  What  they  really  dread  is 
not  the  loss  of  EngHsh  interference,  but  the  loss  of 
their  own  place  and  power  as  social  overlords. 

To  stand  upon  a  hill  and  overlook  a  slumbering 
market-town  in  the  valley  below,  is  to  see  the  Irish 


THE   FINE   FLOWER  179 

question  visibly  spread  upon  the  living  map  of 
Ireland.  Just  outside  the  clustering  habitations 
of  the  town  rises  a  huge  and  solid  building,  stronger, 
handsomer,  more  elaborate  and  impressive  than 
any  house  in  the  town  itself.  This  building 
represents  English  rule.  It  is  the  Workhouse. 
Wherever  you  go  in  Ireland  you  find  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  towns  these  immense,  costly,  and 
complex  structures  born  of  the  indiscriminate  appli- 
cation to  poor  Ireland  of  those  laws  for  dealing 
with  poverty  which  have  been  so  singularly  unsuc- 
cessful in  rich  England.  Few  things  have  been  more 
disastrous  to  modern  Ireland  than  her  dose  of 
England's  Poor  Laws.  The  great  massive  work- 
houses estabHshed  all  over  the  country  have  created 
tramps,  beggars,  unemployables,  and  villains  of 
a  horrid  type  ;  they  have  embittered  the  honest 
poor  who  are  taxed  to  support  them  ;  and  they 
have  added  an  enormous  charge  to  the  debit  side 
of  Ireland's  ledger.  If  you  would  reaHze  how  pre- 
posterous a  thing  it  is  to  apply  English  legislation 
to  Ireland,  to  make  Ireland  do  whatever  England 
does,  to  make  of  England's  necessities  the  measure 
of  Ireland's  needs,  visit  one  of  these  mighty 
buildings  and  ask  any  man  of  business  in  the 
town  what  effect  it  has  produced  on  Irish  life. 

From  the  hill-top,  looking  to  the  hills  on  the 
further  side  of  the  valley,  far  away  from  the  town, 
the  traveller  sees  large  and  beautiful  houses  planted 


180  THE  FINE  FLOWER 

at  spacious  distances  from  each  other  and  sur- 
rounded by  fruitful  land,  by  beautiful  woods,  and 
gardens  shining  in  the  sun.  These  houses  repre- 
sent the  EngHsh  garrison.  They  are  occupied  by 
the  descendants  of  those  obHging  Protestants  who 
went,  for  England's  glory,  to  a  starved  and  shattered 
Ireland,  and  made  themselves  masters  of  the  land. 
The  fertile  fields,  the  rich  woods,  the  convenient 
rivers,  and  the  rent-paying  villages  scattered  over 
their  profitable  acres,  were  not  purchased  by  their 
ancestors  ;  they  were  taken  by  force  ;  some  people 
would  say  they  were  stolen.  The  strong  walls  sur- 
rounding for  many  miles  some  of  these  fine  properties 
cost  their  owners  not  a  penny-piece.  Some  were 
actually  paid  for — quietly  reflect  upon  this  fact — 
by  the  money  England  subscribed  for  the  reUef  of 
the  great  Famine  ;  others  were  not  paid  for  at  all — 
they  were  built  by  forced  labour.  The  houses,  the 
gardens,  the  waUs,  the  land,  the  splendour  and 
beauty  of  these  places,  represent  England's  con- 
quest of  Ireland.  They  stand  for  that  aspect  of 
the  Irish  question  which  we  are  now  considering, 
the  English  garrison. 

When  the  eye  has  taken  its  fiU  of  these  noble 
domains,  it  returns  for  a  moment  to  that  other 
aspect  of  EngHsh  influence,  the  great  pompous 
workhouse ;  then,  it  studies  the  centre  of  the 
picture,  the  town  itself.  Great  is  the  comparison. 
Against  the  central  street — with  its  mayor's  humble 


THE    FINE    FLOWER  181 

residence,  its  town-hall,  its  hotel,  its  shops,  and 
its  market-place — ^huddle  and  press  a  thousand 
mean,  miserable  small  houses,  packed  and  con- 
gested together  in  utmost  confusion  of  smoke  and 
squalor.  These  Httle  cabins  are  Hke  so  many  Hmpet- 
sheUs  stuck  to  a  rock,  and,  as  the  hmpet-shell  is 
packed  with  Hmpet  flesh,  so  are  these  human  shells 
stuffed  with  humanity.  Three  and  four  generations 
may  be  found  in  those  dark,  ill-ventilated,  and  sun- 
less tenements.  The  tiny  streets  and  stifling  courts 
are  full  of  children.  The  struggle  for  existence 
seems  to  have  crowded  their  houses  and  their 
occupiers  together  like  a  flock  of  sheep  hurdled  in 
a  damp  and  trodden  corner  of  a  turnip-field.  On 
every  side  there  is  land — green,  sunlit,  and  fertile 
land — but  these  cabins  are  herded  and  squeezed 
and  fenced  together  as  if  they  were  a  London 
slum.     They  represent  the  Irish  nation. 

With  the  Enghsh  garrison  lording  it  over  the 
pastures,  and  with  the  English  Workhouse  bleeding 
the  virility  of  the  nation  before  their  very  eyes, 
bleeding  it  and  charging  them  with  the  leech's 
fee,  the  Irish  nation,  crammed  in  its  rotten  cabin, 
is  conscious  of  something  wrong  and  hindering  in 
the  union  with  Great  Britain.  It  is  conscious  of 
being  "  squeezed." 

Such  in  landscape  is  this  Irish  question.  The 
Workhouse  stands  for  the  imposition  of  unsuitable 
and  therefore  disastrous  laws  enacted  by  another 


182  THE    FINE    FLOWER 

country  ;  the  domains  stand  for  an  alien  land- 
lordism ;  and  the  strugghng  town,  toiUng  for 
existence,  and  almost  powerless  to  express  its  will, 
stands  for  the  Irish  nation. 

It  is  quite  certain  that,  by  a  transformation  of 
nationality,  many  people  now  loyal  and  satisfied  in 
England  would  be  disloyal  and  dissatisfied  in  Ireland. 
And  I  marvel  that  so  many  of  the  poor  and  strugghng 
Irish  are  not  infinitely  more  bitter  and  fierce  in  their 
quarrel  with  the  Union. 

As  for  the  EngHsh  garrison,  one  finds  among  them 
all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men.  I  met,  for  instance, 
a  cavalry  subaltern  who  stretched  his  long  legs 
before  the  fire,  assured  me  with  a  laugh  that  the 
whole  agitation  for  Home  Rule  was  merest  blather- 
skite, and  begged  me  to  come  and  stay  with  him 
at  the  house  of  a  jolly  old  cock  who  was  training 
his  horses,  knew  all  about  the  Irish  Nationality, 
and  could  tell  me  dozens  of  good  stories.  "  You 
can  hardly  get  upstairs  to  bed,"  he  said,  laughing, 
"  for  dogs  fighting  on  the  stairs,  but  it's  not  a  bad 
little  crib,  and  the  old  fellow  himself  is  a  topper. 
He  knows  Ireland.  By  gad,  he  does !  better  far  than 
the  Brothers  Redmond."  On  the  other  hand,  I  met 
men  hke  Lord  Dunraven,  landlords  who  have  spent 
large  sums  of  money  in  building  cottages,  improving 
land,  introducing  new  crops — such  as  tobacco — and 
who  are  devoted  with  something  Hke  enthusiasm  to 
the  development  of  Ireland's  resources.    Such  men, 


THE    FINE    FLOWER  183 

while  they  stand  apart  from  Irish  politics,  candidly 
admit  the  justice  of  Ireland's  claim  for  self-govern- 
ment. Then  one  meets  people  who  are  in  the  stage 
of  our  own  squires  at  the  beginning  of  the  last 
century  ;  they  farm  a  little  land  themselves,  go 
regularly  to  the  Bench  and  the  parish  church,  take 
a  rather  kind  but  condescending  interest  in  the 
lives  of  the  peasants,  and  regard  hunting,  shooting, 
and  fishing  as  the  main  occupations  of  a  Christian's 
Hfe.  Again,  one  encounters  Uttle  rural  communities 
of  culture,  where  the  women  are  devoted  to  water- 
colours  and  music,  where  Mudie's  library  and  the 
AthencBum  are  of  weekly  importance,  and  where 
visits  are  paid  to  cottages,  entertainments  organized 
in  the  village  schoolroom,  and  garden-parties  pro- 
vided for  the  county  in  the  summer. 

It  would,  perhaps,  be  difficult  to  find  a  thoroughly 
bad  landlord  in  modern  Ireland  ;  but  it  is  not  easy 
to  find  men  and  women  of  the  English  garrison  who 
perfectly  or  even  partially  comprehend  the  move- 
ment of  democracy.  And  that  is  the  tragedy  of 
all  aristocracies.  To  be  suspicious,  distrustful,  and 
afraid  of  democracy,  to  beheve  that  every  move- 
ment of  the  many  towards  more  sunshine  and 
purer  air,  to  consider  that  their  own  happiness,  their 
own  ease,  their  own  refinement  and  virtue  are  of 
essential  value  to  the  poor — this  is  the  blunder  of  all 
privileged  classes  in  all  countries  of  the  world. 

In  Ireland  it  is  almost  pitiful  to  see  how  these 


184  THE    FINE   FLOWER 

little  groups  of  nice  people  in  nearly  every  part 
of  the  country  form  themselves  into  superior  oases 
of  mortality,  stand  entirely  aloof  from  the  national 
life,  and  narrow  the  noblest  qualities  of  the  human 
spirit  in  a  proud  exclusiveness  to  which  neither 
their  parts  nor  value  entitle  them. 

It  is  the  belief  of  many  NationaHsts  that  Home 
Rule  will  draw  the  whole  nation  together,  and  that 
the  Enghsh  garrison  will  step  down  from  its  pedestal 
and  bear  an  honourable  part  in  the  daily  work  of  the 
commonwealth. 

Many  of  these  pleasant  English  people — ^for  so 
one  must  really  call  them — are  admirably  gifted 
for  the  labour  of  government,  some  of  them  are 
capable  of  exercising  a  valuable  influence  on  poHtical 
thought.  It  is  certain  that  they  can  be  of  service  to 
the  State. 

But  they  must  first  learn — I  speak,  of  course,  only 
of  the  ruck — to  trust  democracy,  to  know  that 
anything  in  the  nature  of  snobbishness  is  now  quite 
vulgarly  out  of  fashion,  and  to  reaUze  that  every 
man  in  the  modern  State  has  duties  which  cannot 
be  devolved  and  responsibihties  which  cannot  be 
shirked.  They  must,  above  everything  else,  appre- 
hend the  inwardness  of  those  great  tidal  movements 
of  democracy  which  are  now  altering  the  configura- 
tion of  history  and  shaping  the  destinies  of  the 
human  race.  They  must  rid  their  minds  of  petty 
intolerance,   trivial  bigotry,  and  irrational  preju- 


THE    FINE    FLOWER  185 

dice  ;  they  must  put  themselves  into  line  with 
modern  science  and  modern  poHtics  ;  and  they 
must  open  their  doors  and  invite  to  their  firesides  all 
those  who  are  working  for  the  future  righteousness 
with  clean  hands  and  honest  hearts. 


CHAPTER  XI 
BECAUSE   IT  IS   ALWAYS   DUBLIN 

THERE  is  something  about  Dublin  that  wears 
the  look  and  breathes  the  character  of  an  old 
French  town.  It  might  be  a  quarter  of  Paris  or  a 
neighbour  of  Tours.  One  thinks  that  Balzac  would 
have  well  liked  to  rummage  in  its  unconventional 
dark  streets,  that  Turgeniev  might  have  lived  his 
quiet,  gentle,  expatriated  Hfe  in  one  of  its  formal 
squares,  that  Daudet,  leaning  from  a  high  window 
overlooking  the  river,  would  have  seen  the  very 
theatre  of  his  dreams. 

Cork,  when  you  get  to  know  it,  has  also  some- 
thing of  the  French  spirit — a  beautiful  city,  fuU 
of  surprises,  and  compassed  about  by  a  wonderful 
prettiness  of  landscape.  But  DubUn  is  this,  with 
the  added  grandeur,  the  more  sombre  tone,  of  a 
settled  antiquity  and  a  sad  illustrious  history. 
One  is  conscious  in  this  old  city,  with  its  wide  streets, 
its  churches,  its  bridges,  and  its  statues,  of  a  once 
splendid  renown,  a  once  glowing  enthusiasm  for 
nationality,  and  a  once  brilHant  devotion  to  the 
excitements  of  social  life — all  of  which  have  grown 

186 


BECAUSE  IT  IS  ALWAYS  DUBLIN     187 

prouder  and  more  exclusive  with  the  shabbiness 
of  declining  prosperity.  It  is  like  some  venerable 
lady  living  in  a  bath-chair  at  Tunbridge  Wells 
who  once  tapped  Palmerston's  arm  with  a  playful 
fan  and  suggested  to  pretty  Uttle  Queen  Victoria 
a  new  arrangement  of  her  ribbons.  You  seem  to 
be  aware  in  these  grim  and  ancient  streets  of  the 
rumble  of  coaches  over  the  cobbles,  of  the  swagger- 
ing, dicing,  and  mohawking  excesses  of  gilded  youth 
along  the  narrow  pavements,  and  at  night  of  open 
doors  showing  bright  interiors  in  the  now  gloomy  and 
deserted  squares,  music  and  the  sound  of  dancing 
coming  with  a  decorous  joy  from  the  long  French 
windows  on  the  upper  floor.  There  is  scarcely  a 
tree  in  the  gardens  that  does  not  whisper  of  an 
amorous  past. 

And  also  one  is  conscious  at  night,  in  the  dark 
and  empty  streets  of  this  tired  city,  of  a  roUing  of 
drums,  a  turning  of  gun-wheels,  and  the  tramp  of 
a  gaunt  army  marching  with  torn  banners  and 
bandaged  brows  through  weeping  and  waihng 
multitudes.  Great  battles  have  been  fought,  subhme 
causes  have  struggled  with  adversity,  incomparable 
transports  of  deUrious  joy  and  overwhelming 
breakers  of  tribulation  and  despair  have  swept  like 
a  flood  through  these  ancient  sombre  streets 
crowded  with  ghosts,  where  now  the  poHceman 
walks  Hstless  and  unemployed,  where  the  gaudy 
electric  tram  scrapes  a  string  music  from  the  over- 


188     BECAUSE  IT  IS  ALWAYS  DUBLIN 

head  wire,  and  where  the  clerk  and  typist  going 
home  in  the  twiUght  stop  to  smile  at  a  window  fuU 
of  comic  picture  post-cards. 

But  DubHn  is  stiU  the  Mecca  of  every  Irishman 
conscious  of  social  gifts.  There  is  no  other  city  in 
Ireland  where  Beau  BrummeU  could  take  the  air 
or  Sheridan  invite  a  party  of  wits  to  dinner. 
DubUn  is  the  unchallenged  capital  of  Ireland's 
poetry  and  fashion  and  philosophy.  One  may  call  it 
the  Salon  of  the  Lady  Next  Door. 

There  are  streets  as  briUiant  with  luminous  shops 
as  the  Narrows  of  our  own  Bond  Street.  There  are 
statues  of  national  heroes  at  every  corner.  Huge 
and  solemn  architecture  congregates  at  a  single 
dramatic  point  with  the  impressive  authority  of 
a  capital  city.  Beautiful  gardens  with  winding 
walks  and  glowing  waters  receive  on  a  fine  morning 
the  perambulators  of  the  city.  Gentlemen  and 
ladies  go  riding  in  the  park.  Merchants  arrive 
at  their  offices  in  motor-cars  and  phaetons.  Cavalry 
orderlies  trot  bumping  through  the  central  streets 
with  blue  envelopes  carefully  held  in  the  fingers 
of  their  white  gauntlets.  Protestant  clergymen 
in  gaiters  and  CathoHc  priests  in  shovel-hats  rub 
shoulders  and  avert  their  eyes  in  the  sauntering 
crowd.  Professors  from  the  rival  Universities  meet 
and  avoid  each  other  in  bookshops.  Students 
lounge  at  college  entries.  Apostles  of  great  causes 
and   secretaries    of   vital   movements,    oddly    and 


BECAUSE  IT  IS  ALWAYS  DUBLIN     189 

romantically  dressed,  haste  through  the  streets 
with  transfigured  faces  and  long  hair.  Exquisite 
girls,  their  complexions  unequalled  on  this  side 
of  Paradise,  go  shopping  under  the  striped  awn- 
ings of  the  fashionable  quarter.  Thick-clothed, 
heavy-booted  workmen,  as  in  every  city  of  the 
world,  loll  gloomy,  torpid,  and  savage  against  the 
shiny  walls  of  street  corners.  Little  impudent-faced 
boys  run  across  the  roadways  with  bundles  of  news- 
papers under  their  arms,  a  placard  blowing  about 
their  bare  legs,  the  end  of  a  cigarette  smouldering 
at  the  dirty  corners  of  their  elderly  mouths.  Women, 
with  babies  rolled  sausage-hke  in  melancholy  grey 
shawls,  sell  gorgeous  flowers  to  chaffering  middle- 
class  ladies.  In  the  gutters  crawl  ruminating 
red-nosed  sandwich-men  announcing  incongruous 
music,  theatricals,  bazaars,  bargain  sales.  The 
butcher's  pony  rattles  by  at  a  sharp  trot.  The 
jarvey  lifts  his  whip  to  attract  your  attention.  His 
Excellency's  limousine  glides  up  to  the  pavement's 
edge.  .  .  . 

You  get  the  impression  from  these  interesting 
streets,  particularly  on  a  bright  morning  in  spring, 
or  a  very  cold,  rosy  morning  in  winter,  that  the 
city  has  Httle  to  do  but  enjoy  itself.  You  are 
disposed  to  guess  at  the  golf-handicap  of  the  men 
rather  than  to  surmise  their  profession,  and  as  for 
the  beautiful  women  you  wonder  what  romance 
nestles  at  their  heart  even  when  the  red,  green,  and 


190     BECAUSE  IT  IS  ALWAYS  DUBLIN 

chocolate-coloured  pile  of  tradesmen's  books  in  their 
hands  argue  a  considered  and  prosaic  housekeeping. 

The  city  is  just  of  a  size.  Men  can  be  really 
famous  in  Dublin,  importance  can  feel  itself  im- 
portant, beauty  can  know  itself  known  by  name, 
even  a  knighthood  is  aware  of  inspiring  awe.  As 
for  BuUion,  it  may  go  about  the  world  of  Dublin, 
conscious  of  a  most  satisfying  envy,  for  people  there 
are  not  distressingly  pecunious.  If  any  man  is 
truly  witty,  everyone  knows  him  ;  if  any  man  is 
a  mighty  scholar,  everybody  tells  you  so  ;  if  any 
lady  gives  deUghtful  parties,  she  is  a  Queen  with 
DubUn  for  her  court.  Why  anybody  who  is  any- 
body in  Dublin  should  wish  to  drown  himself  in  the 
Atlantic  Ocean  of  London  is  a  matter  that  would 
be  painful  to  explore. 

It  is  worth  noticing  that  with  aU  its  gaiety  and 
disposition  to  be  fashionable,  Dublin  is  almost 
entirely  free  of  the  common  vice  which  disfigures 
other  cities.  There  is  nothing  in  the  whole  town 
that  suggests  for  a  moment  anything  approaching 
to  the  central  and  unblushing  shame  of  London. 
Indeed,  a  man  might  live  all  his  life  in  Dublin  and 
never  see  a  single  tragedy  of  this  kind.  Girls  faU, 
perhaps  wiUingly  take  to  that  way  of  getting  money, 
but  they  do  not  remain  in  Dublin.  DubHn  does 
not  pay.  A  father  devoted  to  his  children  might  take 
them  at  all  hours  about  the  streets  of  Dublin  and 
never  have  to  lie  away  an  awkward  question. 


BECAUSE  IT  IS  ALWAYS  DUBLIN     191 

But  Dublin  has  its  shame.  There  are  slums, 
hidden  away  in  the  dark  places  of  this  city,  which 
are  so  atrocious  that  I  think  they  must  long  ago 
have  destroyed  all  virtue  in  their  inhabitants  but 
for  the  constant  vigilance  of  a  ruling  priesthood.  In 
these  foul,  inhuman  dens — one  dreadful  closet  for 
a  double  row  of  houses — ^you  come  across  little 
interiors  decorated  with  pictures  of  St.  Mary,  and 
discover  so  kindly  and  virtuous  a  family  hfe  that 
you  are  disposed  to  beHeve  the  dictum  of  Dean 
Inge,  "It  is  the  pig  that  makes  the  sty,  and  not 
the  sty  that  makes  the  pig."  But  the  poverty  is 
frightful.  The  struggle  to  keep  head  above  water 
is  very  nearly  intolerable.  People  do  go  to  the 
devil,  because  for  them  all  sense  of  heavenly  reaHty 
is  obHterated  in  these  noisome  aUeys  of  earthly 
wretchedness.  I  cannot  conceive  of  any  man  with 
one  smouldering  gUmmer  of  an  expiring  conscience 
taking  rent  for  these  burrows.  To  be  pickpocket 
or  murderer  would  be  more  downright  honest. 

Yet  in  these  slums  of  DubHn  there  is  an  atmo- 
sphere which  clothes  them  with  some  different 
guise  from  the  slums  of  Belfast.  To  begin  with, 
they  have  the  excuse  of  age.  They  do  not  say  to 
the  visitor,  "  Here  we  are ;  the  handiwork  of 
IndustriaHsm  ;  the  expression  of  Capital's  attitude 
to  Labour  ;  the  last  word  in  red  brick  and  slates." 
They  existed  before  factories  darkened  the  skies. 
They   seem   older   than   the   city   that   surrounds 


192     BECAUSE  IT  IS  ALWAYS  DUBLIN 

them  with  dwarfing  magnificence.  They  speak  of 
a  simpler  age,  a  more  primitive  people,  and  of  fields 
that  were  once  green  to  their  very  doors.  In  a 
certain  way  they  are  picturesque.  At  any  rate 
they  are  only  anachronisms,  not  contemporary 
iniquities. 

I  paid  a  visit  to  these  slums  with  a  notable  saint. 
Had  he  Hved  in  the  Middle  Ages  this  good  man 
would  have  been  "  aU  heart,"  as  we  say  ;  Uving 
in  the  twentieth  century  he  is  nearly  "  aU  head." 
Let  me  present  the  reader  to  this  excellent  good 
man — ^the  Reverend  Father  Aloysius,  a  Franciscan, 
a  temperance  reformer,  and  a  student  of  municipal 
reform. 

He  is  a  tall,  bony,  angular,  small-headed  gentle- 
man, of  an  age  between  thirty  and  forty.  He  wears 
spectacles  which  keep  slipping  to  the  end  of  his 
nose.  As  he  talks,  the  thin  long  beard  projecting 
from  his  chin  wags  Hke  a  flag-signal.  His  large 
mouth  is  seldom  closed — through  the  wide  and 
genial  gateway  of  his  Hps  you  see  an  incredible 
number  of  teeth  all  jumbled  together  but  Hving 
apparently  in  the  greatest  amity.  His  eyes  are 
round,  vivacious,  feverish.  His  brown  hair  is 
brushed  forward  over  his  forehead.  The  face  is 
that  colour  of  heat  which  hints  of  a  digestion  addled 
by  too  ceaseless  an  activity  of  the  brain. 

Father  Aloysius,  in  his  thick  brown-girdled 
habit,  his  Uttle  skull-cap  at  the  back  of  his  head, 


BECAUSE  IT  IS  ALWAYS  DUBLIN     193 

and  his  long  feet  sliding  about  in  loose  sandals, 
seems  always  to  be  in  a  hurry — as  if  he  had  just 
jumped  up  from  a  table  strewn  with  facts  and 
statistics  and  was  afraid  of  being  late  for  an  appoint- 
ment at  the  other  end  of  the  world.  He  walks  on 
his  toes,  with  a  Httle  hop  in  his  steps  ;  he  carries 
books  and  papers  under  his  arms,  and  talks  at  a 
pace  which  stretches  the  drum  of  one's  ears  to 
keep  up  with  it.  As  he  hurries  you  along  he  will 
wheel  suddenly  round  to  show  something  important 
in  the  street  just  past ;  or,  pushing  his  spectacles 
into  place  and  catching  you  by  the  sleeve,  he  will 
plunge  across  the  traffic  of  the  roadway,  and  stop 
dead  on  the  other  side,  craning  his  thin  neck  and 
looking  to  right  and  left  for  a  particular  house  that 
he  thinks  is  worthy  of  your  inspection. 

And  you  feel  that  four  hundred  years  ago  this 
electric  person  would  have  spent  the  whole  day 
kneeling  in  his  hermit's  ceU  or  poring  over  a  sacred 
book  of  mysticism.  The  times  change  and  the 
saints  with  them.  Love  of  God  has  become  devotion 
to  humanity. 

One  trivial  thing  in  my  walk  with  this  good  man 
made  a  considerable  impression  on  my  mind.  Every 
man  we  passed  dofFed  his  hat  to  the  monk,  and 
children  came  charging  towards  him  with  the  cry, 
as  they  collided  with  his  legs  and  raised  their  smihng 
dirty  faces  to  his  eyes,  "  God  bless  you,  Father." 
Labourers  mending  the  road,  carters  driving  vans 


194     BECAUSE  IT  IS  ALWAYS  DUBLIN 

and  waggons,  postmen  going  by  with  empty  bags 
limp  across  their  shoulders,  jarveys  driving  their 
cars  along,  working-men  lounging  at  street  corners, 
gentlemen  of  the  commercial  traveller  persuasion, 
and  dangerous-looking  roughs  at  the  beginning  of 
a  slum  manhood — all  these  men,  certainly  hundreds 
of  them,  and  so  far  as  I  saw  with  no  single  exception, 
looked  respectfully  towards  the  monk,  and  lifted 
hats  and  caps. 

Father  Aloysius  seemed  to  see  none  of  these 
salutations.  He  acknowledged  only  those  that 
came  as  it  were  face  to  face  with  him,  and  that  with 
briefest  inclination  of  his  head.  But  again  and 
again  he  slackened  his  pace,  bent  down  laughing 
and  deUghted,  and  touched  with  his  hand  the  head 
of  some  child  caUing  upward  from  his  knees,  "  God 
bless  you.  Father  ;  God  bless  you.  Father."  "  God 
bless  you,  child,"  he  would  say,  gently  and  sweetly, 
and  then  guide  them  affectionately  out  of  his 
way. 

Perhaps  it  is  fear  on  the  part  of  ignorant  people. 
Perhaps  it  is  admiration  for  a  life  of  self-sacrifice. 
But  whatever  the  cause  of  this  respect,  I  was  struck 
by  its  universal  accord  in  a  neighbourhood  so  terrible 
and  soul-destroying  that  I  should  not  have  been 
in  the  least  surprised  to  hear  scoffing  and  mocking 
words  aimed  at  the  servant  of  God.  Think  of 
such  reverence  for  a  monk,  or  anybody  else,  in  a 
slum  of  Liverpool,  Manchester,  or  Portsmouth. 


BECAUSE  IT  IS  ALWAYS  DUBLIN     195 

"  Everybody  seems  to  know  you,"  I  said. 
"  Our  Order  has  worked  here  for  a  long  time,"  he 
rephed.  "  They  are  genuinely  fond  of  us,  and  they 
respect  the  habit.  You  would  be  reaUy  interested, 
I  think,  to  discover  how  these  poor  people  cUng  to 
rehgion,  and  how  kind  they  are  to  each  other. 
That  is  what  gives  us  such  great  pleasure.  Their 
kindness  to  each  other,  particularly  in  distress,  is 
amazing.    It  is  quite,  quite  beautiful." 

He  turned  to  me,  smiling,  the  eyes  shining, 
"  On  the  whole  are  they  fairly  virtuous  ?  " 
"  Their  one  vice  is  drink.  People  say  they  are 
lazy,  but  I  am  sure  it  is  untrue.  They  grow  in- 
dolent because  looking  for  a  job  or  standing  about 
for  work  disheartens  them.  They  are  not  properly 
nourished,  and  their  houses  are  insanitary  ;  one  can- 
not expect  them  to  be  efficient.  If  they  had  regular 
work  they  would  be  brisker.  But  aU  the  same, 
drink  is  a  real  vice.  We  are  making  a  great  fight 
for  temperance  with  our  Father  Matthew  Guild, 
and  the  difference  is  already  extraordinary.  You 
will  see  our  Father  Matthew  HaU  where  we  get 
crowds  of  working-men  every  night.  You  see,  they 
have  been  neglected.  Little  has  been  done  to 
amuse  and  strengthen  them  in  their  leisure.  And 
drink  in  Ireland  has  always  been  regarded  rather 
indulgently.  I  don't  think  the  poor  of  Dublin  are 
worse  drinkers  than  the  poor  of  London  or  Glasgow. 
But  there  is  too  much  drinking.     It  is  our  worst 


196     BECAUSE  IT  IS  ALWAYS  DUBLIN 

enemy.  In  everything  else  the  people  are  wonder- 
fully good,  and  as  soon  as  a  man  gives  up  drink 
he  becomes  happy." 

"  You  think  the  slums  are  responsible  ?  " 

"  We  find  that  very  soon  after  a  man  signs  the 
pledge,  he  grows  prosperous,  and  leaves  the  neigh- 
bourhood. He  can  afford  a  better  house.  And  as  the 
good  people  go  out,  the  bad  people  flow  in,  so  that  we 
have  always  got  a  population  of  miser ables.  If  the 
slums  were  swept  away  and  decent  houses  erected, 
the  character  of  the  people  would  improve,  our 
work  would  be  infinitely  more  easy.  These  slums 
are  the  sink  of  the  city  to  which  all  the  unhappiness 
and  failure  and  poverty  and  drunkenness  gravitate 
in  a  steady  flow.  People  can  Uve  here  on  next  to 
nothing." 

We  entered  some  of  the  dens  in  the  worst 
slums,  and  in  every  case  the  Father's  visit  was 
evidently  regarded  as  a  supreme  honour.  With  the 
deference  paid  to  him,  there  was  also  admiration 
and  affection.  I  detected  nothing  of  that  morose- 
ness  which  so  often  characterizes  the  spirit  of  poor 
people  in  London  slums.  These  depressed  Irish 
have  a  certain  grace — a  charm  of  manner  and  a 
tone  of  voice — which  poverty  seems  to  spare. 

Father  Aloysius  carried  me  off  to  see  the  Father 
Matthew  Memorial  Hall — a  vast  building  excel- 
lently planned  for  the  entertainment  and  instruction 
of  working-men.     He  showed  me  these  premises 


BECAUSE  IT  IS  ALWAYS  DUBLIN     197 

with  the  pride  and  enthusiasm  of  a  collector  ex- 
hibiting his  spoils.  His  conversation  showed  him 
to  be  weU  acquainted  with  many  movements  of 
social  reform  in  England  ;  I  discovered  that  he 
is  something  of  an  expert  in  public  questions  ;  he 
is  a  convinced  and  keen-spirited  optimist,  beUeving 
that  it  is  good  to  be  alive  and  fighting  for  the 
progress  of  mankind.  He  would  make  an  excellent 
member  of  Parliament,  invaluable  on  Committees 
and  Commissions ;  his  letter  to  The  Times  would 
receive  the  most  respectful  treatment. 

As  we  parted  he  jerked  the  bundle  of  books  and 
papers  from  under  his  arm,  and  began  to  go  through 
them  with  his  accustomed  speed  in  everything. 
"  I  have  here,"  he  said,  "  some  printed  matter 
which  I  think  may  interest  you."  And  I  drove 
away  with  most  of  his  books  and  nearly  all  his 
papers  in  my  unworthy  hands. 

The  phrase  "  printed  matter  "  is  one  of  the  most 
common  in  Dublin  parlance.  If  you  are  a  senti- 
mental traveller,  and  go  about  this  city  asking 
questions  and  seeking  information,  you  will  find 
that  nearly  every  one  you  meet  has  "  printed 
matter,"  which  he  begs  you  to  take  away  with  you 
and  read  at  your  leisure.  An  extra  portmanteau  is 
advisable. 

I  did  not  reahze  until  this  visit  to  Dubfin  how 
vast  a  boon  to  the  printer  are  those  multitudinous 
and  conflicting  "  movements  "  which  characterize 


198     BECAUSE  IT  IS  ALWAYS  DUBLIN 

our  period.  In  Dublin  there  is  any  number  of 
such  movements,  their  name  indeed,  hke  certain 
of  their  relatives,  is  legion;  and  everybody  con- 
nected with  a  movement  has  an  inexhaustible 
supply  of  "  printed  matter  "  deahng  with  that  par- 
ticular cult.  It  seems  to  me  that  Hke  those  thrifty 
and  inventive  people  who  live  by  taking  in  each 
other's  washing,  the  inhabitants  of  DubHn  must 
spend  their  days  in  becoming  proselytes  of  each 
other's  proselytism.  There  must  be  a  perpetual 
game  of  Family  Coach  among  the  various  stacks  of 
"  printed  matter."  Sooner  or  later,  I  think,  every 
thought  in  the  brain  of  Ireland  wings  to  DubHn 
and  there  materiaHzes  in  pamphlet  form,  becoming 
**  printed  matter." 

Belfast,  as  we  shall  see  presently,  is  differently 
engaged.  But  this  passion  for  "  printed  matter  " 
is  characteristic  of  the  Irish  capital.  It  shows,  I 
think,  that  Dublin  is  a  city  of  ideas,  it  shows  that 
the  Irish  nation  is  awake  and  alert,  it  shows  that 
interest  in  the  art  and  science  of  human  existence 
is  as  pregnant  in  Ireland  as  it  is  in  London.  Dublin, 
if  it  is  not  exactly  a  seething  cauldron,  is  at  least 
a  kettle  singing  pleasantly  on  the  hob. 

I  am  quite  sure  that  Futurist  poets  and  Futurist 
painters  would  receive  homage  in  DubHn.  I  recom- 
mend, indeed,  all  ladies  and  gentlemen  with  cranky 
ideas  to  make  the  Irish  capital  their  habitation. 
Provided  with  money  enough  to  indulge  themselves 


BECAUSE  IT  IS  ALWAYS  DUBLIN     199 

in  a  little  "  printed  matter,"  they  are  sure  of  interest 
and  may  confidently  reckon  on  disciples. 

And  this  it  is  which  makes  Dublin  so  interesting 
and  beguihng  a  city.  You  are  not  depressed  by  the 
inky  shadows  of  a  mechanical  commerce,  you  are 
not  bored  by  a  formal  sameness  in  humanity,  you 
are  not  teased  by  the  trifling  httleness  and  the  sated 
cynicism  of  a  conventional  society.  Every  other 
man  you  meet  has  a  patent  medicine  for  the  ills  of 
the  human  race,  or  is  working  heart  and  soul  for 
millennium,  or  is  looking  about  him  for  a  fad  and 
a  crotchet  to  which  he  can  devote  the  passion  of  his 
life.  Everybody  wants  to  be  enthusiatic  about 
something.  Men  there  are  in  love  with  existence. 
You  feel  that  a  nation  is  thinking  about  life. 
You  encounter  Mr.  Pickwick  and  Don  Quixote  at 
the  same  dinner-party,  and  adventure  is  the  spirit 
of  every  table  talk.  One  man  strikes  an  idea  to 
light  his  pipe,  and  sets  fire  to  the  box  of  Dublin 
dreams.  I  met  two  professors  in  one  evening  :  the 
Professor  of  EngHsh  Literature  was  enthusiastic 
about  poHtical  economy ;  and  the  Professor  of 
Commerce  was  enthusiastic  about  poetry. 

I  long  for  Home  Rule,  that  I  may  go  to  Dublin 
before  I  die  and  see  the  city  shining  in  the  glory 
of  a  national  Parhament.    It  will  be  a  living  capital. 

Much  virtue,  believe  me,  in  *'  printed  matter." 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE   DAME 

SOMEWHERE  in  the  wilds  of  County  Derry— 
I  think  it  must  have  been  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Magherafelt — I  made  acquaintance  with  a 
mild  and  beautiful  old  woman  who  was  very  amus- 
ing and  interesting,  and  who  seemed  to  me  in  one 
particular  typical  of  the  Irish  Mother. 

She  lives  alone  in  a  diminutive  dwelling,  like  a 
little  whitewashed  fowl-house,  at  the  gates  of  a 
great  house  occupied  by  a  doctor.  To  enter  the  old 
lady's  cabin  you  descend  two  steps,  stooping  your 
head  to  avoid  a  blow  from  the  lintel.  The  interior 
is  bright  and  cosy.  A  tall  bed,  spread  with  an 
elaborate  quilt  of  patchwork,  is  the  principal  article 
of  furniture.  The  walls  on  every  side  are  pasted  with 
most  incongruous  pictures  and  advertisements 
cut  from  magazines  and  newspapers — advertise- 
ments, among  others,  of  corsets,  gartered  stockings, 
and  high-heeled  shoes.  There  are  three  little  deep- 
set  windows,  with  flower-pots  on  the  ledges.  A 
door  in  the  back  admits  to  a  garden.    A  peat-fire 

200 


THE   DAME  201 

burns  in  the  grate.  On  the  mantelpiece  are  china 
ornaments  and  brass  candlesticks. 

The  dame  is  white-haired,  and  wears  a  black  cap 
Avith  a  friU  of  white  musHn  in  the  front.  Her  face  in 
repose  has  the  austerity  of  a  church  dignitary.  The 
eyes  are  pale  blue  and  severe.  The  colour  of  the 
skin  is  like  ivory.  Her  cheeks  are  hollow.  Nose  and 
lips  are  pinched  and  refined. 

She  said  to  me,  in  a  low  voice,  speaking  quickly 
and  impressively  :  "  I  am  alone  in  the  world,  after 
a  long  and  heavy  hfe  ;  but  it's  the  WiU  of  God  ;  and 
who  am  I  to  complain  ?  Tut,  who  am  I  ?  But,  ah, 
the  weary  time,  the  weary  time  !  I  bore  seven  sons 
to  my  husband,  and  I  reared  five  of  them,  tall  men 
and  strong,  and  they  aU  left  me  and  went  away,  tut, 
tut ;  and  now  they're  dead — dead  and  buried  in 
foreign  lands.  Not  one  of  them  lies  in  an  Irish  grave. 
Two  of  my  boys  are  buried  in  America,  one  in 
Australia,  one  in  a  place  they  caU  Glasgow  over 
in  Scotland,  and  one  of  them  in  Canada.  Ah  me, 
ah  me  !  Three  of  them  were  married,  and  their 
children,  I  suppose,  are  alive  now  ;  but  I've  never 
seen  them,  I  never  hear  a  word  from  them  ;  I  don't 
even  know  their  names.  But  it's  the  Will  of  God  ; 
and  people  here  are  very  kind  to  me  ;  the  good 
doctor  comes  to  see  me,  a  rare  gentleman  he  is,  and 
he  sends  me  milk  from  his  cows  ;  and  I've  got  the 
Old  Age  Pension  ;  and  when  I  die  I  shall  be  buried 
beside  my  husband,  who  was  always  a  good  man  to 


202  THE   DAME 

me,  and  a  true  father  to  his  sons.  Dear,  dear! 
But  how  I'm  cracking  to  you  !  "  Her  face  lit  sud- 
denly with  a  smile.  "  You'll  think  me  bold  to  be 
talking  so  freely." 

Something  of  the  romance  of  our  race  seemed  to 
shine  over  the  old  dame  as  she  was  speaking. 
Withered  and  pale,  soHtary  and  pensioned,  this 
venerable  cottager,  sitting  beside  her  peat-fire  in  a 
derelict  comer  of  Ulster,  has  given  of  the  fruit  of 
her  womb  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth. 
Seed  of  her  seed  are  now  planting  and  reaping  in 
lands  across  the  sea,  and  she  does  not  know  how 
they  fare,  does  not  even  know  their  names.  Over 
her  fire  alone  in  the  world,  but  not  friendless,  she 
dreams  of  the  past ;  and  none  of  her  children's 
children  will  come  to  close  her  eyes  and  follow  her 
to  the  grave.  Something  of  her  temperament, 
something  of  her  heart,  something  of  her  soul  may 
be  interwoven  in  the  destinies  of  America,  Canada, 
and  Austraha — ^perhaps  indestructibly. 

She  said  to  me  :  "  It's  wonderful  how  many  people 
live  as  if  they'd  got  nothing  to  do  but  look  for  their 
own  pleasure.  To  think  of  that  !  I'm  always  teUing 
people  here  that  our  real  Hfe  is  to  come,  that  we 
ought  to  seek  God  and  think  about  Him — for  isn't 
it  true  that  after  death  we  shall  live  for  ever  and 
ever  ?  Tut,  of  course  it's  true.  I  think  it  is  dreadful, 
oh  dreadful,  that  people  don't  think  more  about 
€rod.    And  what  a  glorious  thought  it  is.    A  Father 


THE    DAME  203 

in  heaven  !  God  is  Love  !  Our  Father  !  Could  a 
body  have  anything  more  beautiful  to  think  about  ? 
But,  you  know,  there  are  some  people  who  never 
say  their  prayers  !  Tut.  Imagine  it !  Never  say 
their  prayers  !  Now,  isn't  that  a  dreadful  thing  ? 
Oh,  I  can't  think  what's  coming  to  the  world.  But, 
there,  there  !  You'll  be  laughing  at  me  soon.  I 
haven't  had  a  crack  like  this  for  a  long  time.  Oh 
dear,  aren't  I  talking  a  lot  !  " 

I  encouraged  her  to  continue. 

"  I've  seen  something  of  the  world,  and  I've 
crossed  the  sea,"  she  said  presently.  "  I  once  paid 
a  visit  to  that  place  they  call  Glasgow,  over  in  Scot- 
land across  the  water — oh,  a  terrible,  terrible  place  ! 
Tut,  I  don't  know  how  people  can  hve  in  such  dirty 
places,  not  fit  for  the  animals,  I'm  sure.  I  went 
there  to  see  my  poor  boy  ;  he  was  an  engineer  ;  and 
there  he  Hes,  dead  in  the  cemetery.  Ah,  he  was  a 
beautiful  boy  !  TaU,  oh,  yes  !  and  strong  and 
fine-looking — a  great  man  every  way.  Oh,  you 
should  have  seen  his  father — a  grand  man  !  But 
he's  dead  ;  yes,  he's  dead.  And  now  I'U  tell  you 
something  interesting.  When  I  went  across  the  sea 
I  heaved.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life.  Never 
before  and  never  since  I  did  it,  but  I  heaved  then. 
Up  it  came  !  Oh,  dreadful !  Whish  ! — ^you  never 
saw  such  a  thing  in  your  Hfe.  And  when  I  got  to 
Glasgow  there  was  only  a  narrow  board  from  the 
ship  to  the  land  ;    and  do  you  think  I  was  afraid 


204  THE    DAME 

to  walk  down  it  ?  Tut,  why,  I  ran  !  Yes,  my  son 
said  he  never  saw  such  a  thing  in  his  Hfe.  Everybody 
thought  I  should  fall  and  wanted  to  hold  me  ;  and 
I  ran  !  But  the  truth  is  I  was  so  glad  to  be  rid  of 
the  ship.  Yes,  I  ran  down  the  plank.  Oh,  I've  seen 
something  of  the  world." 

Always  she  returned  to  the  subject  of  re- 
ligion. 

"  Don't  you  think  it  is  awful,  the  way  people  set 
themselves  up  against  God  ?  They  make  them- 
selves to  know  more  than  the  God  Who  made  them. 
Just  think  of  that,  now.  I  heard  a  story  in  my 
young  days  which  shows  how  God  punishes  people 
like  that.  There  was  a  poor  man  in  Ireland  who 
married,  and  every  year  his  wife  bore  him  a  child. 
When  there  were  five  of  them,  he  said  to  her,  '  I 
cannot  afford  to  hve  with  you  ;  your  children  will 
soon  eat  up  all  I've  got.'  And  he  went  away,  and 
left  her,  so  that  he  should  have  no  more  children. 
Yes,  he  went  over  to  Scotland,  where  the  wages  are 
high,  and  every  week  he  sent  money  to  his  wife  in 
Ireland,  just  enough  for  herseK  and  the  five  bairnies. 
And  at  the  end  of  three  years  he  came  back  ;  and 
what  do  you  think  happened  ?  The  very  next  time 
she  was  brought  to  bed,  she  had  three  at  a  birth — 
triplets  !  Yes,  one  for  every  year  he  had  deserted 
her.  So  he  might  just  as  weU  have  stayed  at  home. 
And  that's  how  God  punishes  people  who  set  up 
their  dirty  ignorance  against  His  laws.    Sure,  doesn't 


THE   BAME  205 

He  know  what  is  good  for  us  better  than  we  know 
it  ourselves  ?  " 

Towards  the  end  of  our  colloquy  she  grew  more 
whispering  and  confidential.  A  look  of  cunning  stole 
into  her  pale  blue  eyes.  I  noticed  that  she  studied 
my  appearance  and  the  details  of  my  clothing  with 
a  hungry  curiosity,  almost  a  murderous  greed. 

She  leaned  quite  close  to  me,  put  her  hand  on  my 
knee,  and  in  a  very  low  voice,  moistening  her  lips 
with  excitement,  and  speaking  as  if  she  was  impart- 
ing a  tremendous  secret  for  my  everlasting  benefit, 
ehe  whispered  : 

"  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what  you  should  do.  You 
listen  to  me  now.  Hush  !  I'll  tell  you  something  ; 
yes,  something  good.  You  must  think  about  God. 
You  must  always  be  looking  for  Him,  and  hstening 
to  what  He  says.  Sure,  He's  always  near,  always 
quite  close  to  us.  Always  teUing  us  what  to  do.  For 
instance  " — drawing  her  chair  even  nearer,  sinking 
her  voice  even  lower,  and  speaking  with  extra- 
ordinary rapidity  as  her  hand  passed  excitedly  up 
and  down  over  m}^  knee — "  for  instance,  suppose  you 
should  come  across  a  poor  old  woman,  Hving  aU 
alone,  and  with  only  just  enough  money  to  keep 
body  and  soul  together  ;  and  suppose,  being  a  fine 
rich  gentleman,  you  feel  incHned  to  put  your  hand 
in  your  pocket,  and  you  think  to  yourself  that  you'll 
give  the  old  body  a  shilling,  or  say  half  a  crown — 
well,  do  you  think  it's  your  own  thought  at  all  ? 


206  THE    DAME 

Faith,  it's  not  so — ^not  at  all !  Tut,  it  isn't  you 
that's  thinking  you'll  give  the  money.  But,  my 
dear,  you  do  it  !  You  do  it  !  Hush  !  Take  my 
advice  now.  Do  it,  do  it  !  And  I'll  tell  you  why. 
Ifs  God  telling  you.  It's  not  you  thinking ;  it's  God. 
Yes,  that's  how  God  acts.  He  tells  us  to  do  these 
things.  You  give  the  poor  old  woman  half  a  crown, 
or  if  that's  too  much,  give  her  a  shilHng  ;  and  in 
the  next  world  you'll  get  it  back — God  Himself 
will  give  it  back  to  you.  Isn't  that  wonderful,  now  ? 
— but  isn't  it  beautiful  ? — and,  mind  you — ^hush  ! — 
iVs  true.  I  know  it.  That's  how  God  acts.  Now, 
my  dear,  be  sure  you  always  do  what  God  tells  you." 

This  beautiful  old  woman,  a  Mother  in  Ireland, 
had  dropped  suddenly  into  cunning  senility.  She 
addressed  me  as  a  Httle  child  and  spoke  herself  as  a 
child.  It  was  Uke  an  animal  to  watch  the  Hcking 
of  her  thin  hps,  the  covetous  peering  of  her  eyes, 
the  twitchings  of  her  hands. 

I  thanked  her  with  becoming  gratitude  for  her 
revelation,  and  before  taking  my  leave  begged  her 
to  accept  a  terrestrial  half-crown,  given,  however, 
with  no  thought  of  a  celestial  crown. 

She  threw  up  her  hands,  her  eyes  lit  with  laughter, 
her  lips  broke  into  smiles,  her  pale  face  became 
suffused  with  the  warm  colour  of  deHght,  and  she 
exclaimed,  taking  the  money  : 

"  But  1  had  no  thought  you'd  be  thinking  of  me  ! 
There  !  but  I  hope  you  don't  think  I've  been  asking 


THE    DAME  207 

for  it  ?  Tut.  The  thought  never  entered  my  mind  ! 
You'll  beheve  me,  won't  you,  now  ?  Sure,  you 
must  believe  me.  The  thought  never  entered  my 
mind." 

And,  cancelling  all  merit  from  my  charity,  perhaps 
imperiUing  my  soul,  I  said  that  I  perfectly  beheved 
her. 

She  followed  me  to  the  door,  a  most  sweet  and 
beautiful  figure,  praying  God  to  prosper  me  and 
give  me  joy  all  the  days  of  my  Hfe.  Her  benediction 
chased  pity  from  my  heart.  After  all,  it  was  only 
a  reflex  action  of  her  brain,  a  return  to  the  hard  and 
bitter  struggle  for  existence.  I  dare  to  say  that 
she  was  hardly  conscious  of  guile. 

A  bhthe  and  jovial  but  a  very  Turveydrop  of  a 
guard  on  one  of  the  smallest  Ulster  railways  said  to 
me,  "  If  your  honour  had  the  time,  I  could  tell  you 
things,  och,  many  things,  that  would  be  worth  half 
a  crown  to  go  in  a  book  or  a  newspaper." 

I  was  unable  to  discover  how  he  guessed  that  I 
had  any  connection  with  books  or  newspapers,  and 
had  to  content  myself  with  ruminations  on  the 
evident  ubiquity  of  English  half-crowns  in  Ulster. 

At  a  Httle  station,  just  before  the  junction  where 
one  changes  for  the  main  line,  this  smihng  guard 
came  to  my  window,  Hfted  his  cap,  and  inquired 
deferentially,  "  Will  your  honour  allow  me  just  to 
take  a  nip  ?  "  I  began  to  fumble  in  my  trouser 
pocket — for  he  had  been  singularly  obliging  ;    but 


208  THE    DAME 

he  stopped  me  with  a  jovial  laugh.  "  Oh,  no,  your 
honour,"  he  implored,  producing  a  ticket-punch, 
"  not  a  nip  out  of  the  bottle,  but  only  a  nip  out  of 
your  honour's  ticket !  Now,  is  that  worth  half  a 
crown  ?  Oh,  no  !  not  at  all."  And  giving  me  back 
my  ticket  and  raising  his  cap  again,  he  departed 
wreathed  in  smiles. 
At  the  junction  I  saved  one  shilling  and  sixpence. 


I'lioto.  Mason,  Dublin. 


A   P^ISHING   VILLAGE 


Photo.  Mason,  Dublin. 


KERRY  DANCING 


CHAPTER  XIII 
A   CORNER   OF  ULSTER 

PORT-NA-BLAH,  meaning  Buttermilk  Harbour, 
is  the  name  given  to  a  few  scattered  cottages 
clinging  to  the  rocks  about  Sheep  Haven. 

These  two  names,  so  gentle  and  pastoral,  better 
suggest  the  occupation  of  humanity  in  those  parts 
than  the  actual  earth  and  actual  ocean  to  which 
mankind  has  attached  them.  For  while  man  folds 
his  sheep  on  the  mountain  side  and  drives  his  cows 
from  wind-swept  bogland  to  the  shelter  of  the  home- 
stead, the  terrific  force  of  the  Atlantic  thunders 
against  a  bleak  coast  of  incomparable  grandeur, 
sending  the  tide  of  its  power  flowing  far  inland  over 
strewn  and  shattered  rocks  which  are  like  the  ruins 
of  a  great  city.  In  winter  a  more  desolate,  a  more 
terrible,  a  more  ferocious  coast  than  these  broken 
sea-walls  of  Donegal  can  hardly  be  found  in  the 
sister  islands,  and  the  great  sea,  contemptuous  of 
its  name,  far  from  wearing  a  sheepish  look  or  chant- 
ing an  Arcadian  song,  comes  leaping  to  the  heaped 
chaos  of  the  shore  with  a  howl  that  seems  to  set 
the  firmament  in  fear. 

O  209 


210  A    CORNER    OF    ULSTER 

The  savage  nature  of  the  landscape  and  the  hate- 
ful menace  of  the  sea  bestow  extraordinary  charm 
upon  the  little  cottages.  They  are  so  child-Hke  and 
helpless,  so  meek  and  lowly,  so  trustful  and  com- 
placent, that,  contemplating  their  Uttle  white- 
washed walls  and  trivial  roofs  from  such  a  distance 
as  the  height  of  Horn  Head,  one  seems  to  see  in  them 
an  expression  of  man's  truest  attitude  to  the  universe 
which  enfolds  him.  The  wind  roars  against  the 
shattered  chffs,  the  waves  hurl  themselves  upon 
the  streaming  rocks,  the  wild  tumultuous  air  is 
filled  with  a  clangour  full  of  sovran  scorn  or  furious 
malevolence,  and  in  the  Uttle  ramshackle  byre  built 
of  planks  and  gorse  a  girl  is  milking  a  cow,  at  the 
peat  fire  in  the  kitchen  of  the  farm-house  a  woman 
is  baking  bread,  and  down  from  the  mountain  side, 
csLvrjing  a  ].  .mb  in  his  arms,  comes  a  man  whose 
face  is  kind  and  tender. 

I  cannot  decide  whether  it  is  more  difficult  to 
express  in  words  the  grandeur  of  this  tremendous 
landscape  or  the  gentleness,  the  sweetness,  and  the 
pleasant  grace  of  the  simple  people  who  Hve  in  its 
midst.  Perhaps  a  remark  made  to  me  by  an  old 
woman  may  better  help  the  reader  to  feel  the 
nature  of  the  scenery  than  a  catalogue  of  its  quali- 
ties. 

One  morning,  after  a  night  of  snow,  I  started  to 
walk  from  the  farm-house  where  I  was  lodging  in 
Port-na-blah  to  the  distant  and  lofty  scar  of  Horn 


A   CORNER    OF    ULSTER  211 

Head.  It  was  one  of  those  clear  and  ringing  days 
when  the  sun  burns  like  scarlet  blood,  the  snow 
throbs  and  vibrates  with  metallic  Ught,  and  the 
wind  against  the  face  has  the  cutting  sharpness  of 
a  razor's  edge.  Seaward,  where  the  air  was  filled 
with  powdered  mist,  the  moving  ocean  ghttered 
like  an  agate  ;  inland,  where  the  lochs  lay  at  the 
feet  of  the  hills,  there  was  a  dull  grey  shimmer,  as 
of  hammered  steel.  For  the  rest  it  was  an  utterly, 
a  dazzlingly  white  world — the  only  true  white 
known  to  man,  a  white  which  makes  white  Hnen  and 
white  paper  look  dingy  and  ashamed. 

The  lonely  roads  were  smooth  with  this  thick 
whiteness  from  hedge  to  hedge  ;  the  fields  blinded 
the  eyes  with  the  same  unbroken  flash  of  white, 
roUing,  heaving,  and  sinking  into  immeasurable  dis- 
tance ;  the  great  mountains,  sprinkled  and  patched 
with  white  on  their  rock-strewn  sides,  hfted  summits 
to  the  troubled  sky  which  were  as  smooth  and  thick 
with  snow  as  the  level  field  beside  the  loch.  The 
cry  of  sea-birds  wheeUng  through  the  cold  air  had 
the  wail  of  starvation.  Rooks,  with  puffed  feathers 
and  dishevelled  heads,  loaded  the  leafless  trees  with 
a  sense  of  mourning  and  death.  No  cattle  were 
visible  throughout  that  frozen  world.  No  human 
creature  was  working  in  the  fields.  And  the  wind 
pierced  and  cut,  so  that  even  little  birds  were 
forced  to  run  like  mice  through  the  hedges. 

I   passed   through   the   empty   streets   of   Dun- 


212  A   CORNER   OF   ULSTER 

fanaghy,  a  small  town  with  I  know  not  how  many 
rival  churches,  and  getting  on  to  the  fields  made  a 
short  cut  of  the  long  laborious  ascent  to  Horn 
Head.  These  fields,  pricked  with  the  feet  of  birds 
and  spurred  by  the  feet  of  rabbits,  brought  me  once 
more  to  the  road,  and  soon  I  was  in  the  very  teeth 
of  the  wind,  marching  with  bent  head  up  a  steep 
invisible  track  with  cottages  here  and  there  on  one 
side  and  a  line  of  moaning  telegraph  wires  on  the 
other. 

At  the  extreme  end  of  this  long  straight  road  was 
a  cottage,  and  when  I  first  saw  it  a  woman — ^barely 
distinguishable  as  a  woman — was  moving  from  the 
door  to  some  sheds  at  the  side.  As  she  came  back, 
walking  slowly  and  carrying  a  bucket  in  her  hand, 
she  caught  sight  of  me  in  the  distance,  and  stopped, 
shading  her  eyes  and  watching  my  approach.  After 
some  moments,  she  lowered  her  hand  and  shuffled 
into  the  house.  Again  she  appeared,  and  standing 
by  the  door  again  shaded  her  eyes  and  looked  in  my 
direction.  Thus  she  remained,  as  I  climbed  the 
stiff  hiU  and  came  well  within  sight  of  her. 

She  was  apparently  very  old.  The  face  was  for- 
bidding, almost  repulsive.  She  wore  a  dull  red 
handkerchief  tied  over  her  head ;  the  thick  grey 
skirt  reached  only  to  the  tops  of  her  boots,  which 
were  like  a  man's  ;  a  black  shawl  was  crossed  over 
her  breast. 

I  felt  I  should  like  to  speak  to  this  lonely  old 


A   CORNER    OF   ULSTER  213 

woman,  and  went  to  the  gate  of  the  cottage  and 
inquired  the  best  way  to  Horn  Head.  She  came  to- 
wards me,  after  a  moment's  inspection,  slowly  and 
surlily,  shuffling  rather  than  walking.  The  dark 
eyes  were  Hke  dots  in  the  big  yellowish  face ;  the 
skin  was  infinitely  wrinkled  and  pitted  ;  the  upper 
lip  was  long,  severe,  implacable.  One  thought  that 
such  a  woman  had  never  laughed,  had  never  thanked 
God  for  the  gift  of  hfe. 

In  a  grujff  man's  voice  she  told  me  where  I  must 
leave  the  road  and  make  across  the  fields  to  the 
Head.  Then,  looking  me  up  and  down,  she  asked 
sulkily  and  enviously,  "  You  come  from  far,  from 
over  the  water  ;  there's  plenty  of  money  from  where 
you  come  ?  "  My  answer  did  not  satisfy  her.  "Ah  ! " 
she  exclaimed  in  the  rich  Scot's  accent  common  to 
the  Irish  of  the  North,  "  it's  fine  to  travel  and  see 
the  world,  and  have  plenty  of  money." 

"  It's  better,  perhaps,"  I  answered,  "  to  bide  here 
patiently,  working  out  one's  duty,  and  waiting 
quietly  for  what's  to  come." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I'm  told  it's  grand  in  other 
countries,"  she  answered  ;  "  grand,  grand,  they  say. 
Plenty  of  money  over  there." 

I  laughed.  "  Why  do  you  talk  of  money  ?  "  I 
asked  mockingly.  "  Isn't  aU  this  " — ^pointing  to  the 
landscape  and  the  sea  beyond — "  a  great  deal  better 
than  money  ?  Just  look  at  it  all.  What  a  picture 
for  human  eyes ! " 


214  A   CORNER    OF   ULSTER 

She  regarded  me  with  a  penetrating  interest. 
Then,  slowly  nodding  her  old  head,  and  roUing  her 
"r's"  with  a  wonderful  emphasis,  slowly  she 
uttered  these  words,  "  'Tis  the  hardships  of  the 
world  up  here,  and  cold." 

So  we  parted,  and  her  words  haunted  me  on  my 
way.  I  got  to  Horn  Head,  and,  as  well  as  the  wind 
would  let  me,  stood  breathless  and  buffeted  and 
almost  stifled  gazing  at  the  vastness  of  ocean  and 
the  sombre  line  of  tragic  coast  on  either  hand. 
Tory  Island  was  visible  far  away  on  my  left,  looking 
like  a  naughty  boy  who  has  paddled  dangerously  out 
to  sea,  while  the  three  smaller  islands  between  it  and 
the  shore  seemed  Hke  less  daring  brothers  linking 
hands  and  calling  him  back  to  safety.  On  my  right 
was  a  tortured  and  broken  coast,  with  ocean  flowing 
far  inland  behind  me,  and  the  confusion  of  writhing 
hills  about  Port-na-blah  blazing  white  and  ghttering 
against  the  sky. 

The  words  of  the  old  woman  came  to  me  with  a 
touch  of  Lear  in  their  grief.  I  looked  about  me  and 
felt  that  for  those  who  had  to  wring  existence  out 
of  these  rocks,  and  who  had  to  face  the  long  winter 
on  these  mountains,  her  judgment  was  a  true  one, 
and  just.  Nature  herself  seemed  to  say,  "  'Tis  the 
hardships  of  the  world  up  here,  and  cold."  Desola- 
tion stretched  away  on  every  hand,  interminable, 
wasteful,  heartless  and  indifferent.  Nowhere  was 
visible  the  kindness  of  God's  hand ;    nowhere  the 


A   CORNER    OF   ULSTER  215 

lingering  impress  of  caressing  power.  This  veritable 
upheaval  of  a  world,  disfigured  and  racked  and  riven 
by  persecuting  storm,  looked  like  materials  of  crea- 
tion on  which  had  fallen  once  and  for  ever  the 
shadow  of  God's  back  as  He  turned  His  face  inland 
to  the  shaping  of  the  vaUey. 

And  as  I  stood  there,  first  hail,  and  then  snow, 
blown  by  winds  that  shrieked  in  my  ear,  fiUed 
the  whole  sky  with  storm  and  blotted  out  the 
hills. 

The  hardships  of  the  world,  and  cold  !  Yes, 
true  enough.  But  surely  there  is  poetry  in  that 
grumble,  surely  the  very  words  proclaim  a  spiritual 
influence  from  the  haggard  earth  that  inspired  them. 
Lear  himself  might  have  cried  out,  The  hardships 
of  the  world,  and  cold !  What  Cockney  would  so 
express  his  complaint  against  creation  ?  .  .  . 

I  turned  my  back  on  the  snow,  and  repeating 
the  words  in  my  mind,  came  to  the  thought  that 
even  a  desolate  existence  on  a  wind-swept  mountain 
disdained  of  God  and  abandoned  by  civilization 
confers  something  of  grandeur  on  the  soul  which 
the  urbanity  of  cities  fails  to  give. 

And  when  I  got  back  to  my  peat  fire  and  my 
dinner,  and  the  lamp  was  lit  and  the  shutters 
closed,  and  Maggie  stood  talking  beside  my  table  in 
her  adorable  Scots  music — vowing  and  protesting 
she  is  Irish  to  the  last  drop  of  blood  in  her  body  and 
no  taint  of  Scotland  in  her  nature  at  aU,  at  aU — I 


216  A   CORNER    OF   ULSTER 

felt  that  the  hardships  of  the  world  and  cold  have 
their  great  rewards  in  domestic  contrasts. 

Maggie  is  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  house.  Her 
father  is  dead,  her  mother  is  now  too  old  for  in- 
cessant work,  her  brothers  labour  the  fields  and 
tend  the  cattle.  It  is  Maggie's  duty  to  care  for  the 
lodgers,  cooking  their  snipe  to  a  turn,  grilUng  their 
mutton  chops  which  are  Hke  porterhouse  steaks, 
baking  bread  and  cakes  for  them,  and  seeing  that 
the  fire  in  the  parlour  is  always  bright  and  roasting, 
the  lamp  always  well  trimmed  and  unoozing,  the 
beds  always  smooth  and  warm. 

To  speak  socially  she  is  Miss  Mullen,  but  when  I  so 
addressed  her,  she  blushed  a  timid  scarlet,  smiled 
as  though  I  had  been  derisive,  hung  her  head  for  a 
moment,  and  pleaded  to  be  called  Maggie.  "  You 
are  Miss  Mullen  ?  "  I  had  inquired.  "  I'm  Maggie," 
was  her  answer. 

She  does  everything  well.  There  is  not  one  London 
cook  in  seventy  who  can  equal  her  performance ; 
she  bakes  such  bread  as  might  entice  the  gods  from 
ambrosia,  and  from  the  way  in  which  your  bed  is 
made  to  the  manner  in  which  your  lamp  is  trimmed 
you  recognize  in  everything  of  Maggie's  doing  the 
genius  of  a  careful  soul.  But  with  aU  this  efficiency, 
Maggie  is  hundreds  of  years  behind  humanity.  She 
believes  in  the  wee  folk,  there  are  lochs  she  would 
not  care  to  pass  at  night,  she  cannot  understand 
infidelity  concerning  ghosts,  and  she  is  sure  the 


A   CORNER    OF   ULSTER  217 

saints  have  only  to  be  asked  properly  to  do  for  us 
whatsoever  we  desire. 

I  forget  her  age,  but  I  am  sure  it  is  the  youthful 
side  of  thirty.  She  is  of  medium  height,  with  dark 
hair,  a  pale  skin,  and  long-lashed  eyes  in  which 
violets  and  hyacinths  have  mingled  their  colour  to  a 
most  harmonious  blue.  The  corners  of  her  mouth  are 
unsteady  with  smiles,  and  when  these  smiles  get  quite 
out  of  control  the  hps  part  and  the  teeth  shine  with 
the  eyes  in  cheerful  laughter.  But  she  never  laughs 
as  you  hear  a  factory  girl  laugh  in  the  street — ^her 
laughter  is  soft,  low,  and  beautiful  like  her  voice. 
The  upper  Hp  is  dusky  with  an  almost  invisible 
down. 

It  was  dehghtful  to  Usten  to  her  thoughts  as  she 
stood  at  the  door,  a  dish  or  tray  in  her  hand,  half 
going  from  the  room  and  half  inchned  to  stay,  the 
head  hanging,  the  eyes  bright  with  amazement  at 
her  own  audacity  in  discussion.  Seldom  did  she 
raise  those  eyes  to  look  at  me  direct,  mostly  they 
regarded  the  dish  in  her  hand,  or  looked  towards 
the  shutters,  or  explored  the  carpet.  And  of  course 
the  body  was  never  stiU,  but  swayed  with  her  words. 

She  beheves  in  God  as  perhaps  no  httle  child  does 
ever  quite  beheve.  But  her  faith  is  childHke — ^it 
is  not  theological.  She  is  more  sure  of  God  than  of 
her  own  thoughts  about  Him,  she  speaks  of  heaven 
as  if  she  had  spent  her  childhood  looking  through 
its  gates,  she  prays  for  her  Dead  as  if  they  were 


218  A   CORNER    OF   ULSTER 

kinsmen  across  the  sea.  One  word  expresses  her 
religion  :  it  is  Love.  Never  does  cross  or  angry 
word  escape  her  Ups,  never  does  indignation  harden 
the  timid  beauty  of  her  eyes,  never  does  she  express 
herself  with  the  emphasis  and  challenge  of  self. 
Always  she  is  tolerant,  kindly,  self -depreciating, 
anxious  to  be  of  service  to  others.  I  never  heard 
her  say  one  strident  word  or  saw  her  do  a  single 
thing  noisily,  awkwardly,  ungraciously.  She  seemed 
to  breathe  the  blessing  of  a  gentle  kindness  on  the 
burdens  of  her  daily  life. 

The  sternest  words  she  said  to  me  concerned  a 
landlord  who  was  shot  in  that  part  of  Ireland  some 
years  ago.  "  He  was  very  cruel,"  said  Maggie,  in 
her  solemn  voice,  "  and  he  iU- treated  the  poor 
people  very  sorely,  so  that  many  were  starved  and 
homeless  ;  but  they  would  have  borne  all  if  he  had 
not  done  worse  things  than  that." 

I  pressed  her  to  tell  me  those  worse  things.  After 
some  hesitation,  she  raised  her  eyes  frankly  to  mine, 
regarded  me  with  a  solemn  look,  and  said  :  "  He 
would  give  some  of  the  tenants  nice  cottages  inside 
the  domain,  and  then  take  their  daughters  into  his 
house  and  bring  them  to  shame." 

"  And  they  thought  that  a  worse  thing  than  being 
starved  ?  "  I  asked,  to  get  her  mind. 

"  Oh,  but  surely  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Oh,  but 
yes,  of  course  !  "  She  regarded  me  with  something 
like  reproach  in  her  eyes.     "They  killed  him  for 


A   CORNER    OF   ULSTER  219 

that.  It  was  wrong  to  take  his  Mfe,  wrong  to  do 
violence  ;  but  they  could  not  bear  that  he  should 
do  that.  He  was  a  bad  man,  a  very  wicked  man,  I 
fear,  and  it  was  no  life  at  all  while  he  was  ahve." 

Maggie's  views  of  Hfe  are  extremely  simple.  She 
is  untouched  by  the  rather  muddied  movements  of 
great  cities.  She  would  be  regarded  as  a  savage  by 
advanced  women  in  London.  But  I  do  not  think 
you  wiU  find  a  sweeter  or  a  gentler  creature  under 
heaven,  and  if  sweetness  and  gentleness  are  ad- 
mirable quaUties  of  human  spirit,  London  should 
go  to  Port-na-blah,  not  Port-na-blah  to  London. 

This  farm-house,  which  has  lately  added  to  itself 
wings  for  summer  lodgers,  is  in  many  ways  repre- 
sentative of  Irish  home-Ufe.  It  is  set,  as  I  have 
said,  in  a  wild  country.  The  potatoes,  boiled  in 
their  brown  jackets,  have  had  their  leaves  blown  by 
westerly  gales,  their  flowers  drenched  by  Atlantic 
spray  ;  the  milk  has  come  to  the  pail  from  cows 
that  get  a  hving  from  httle  fields  rescued  by  years 
of  toil  from  bog  and  moor  ;  the  sheep  can  be  seen 
silhouetted  against  grey  skies  on  the  top  of  rocks 
that  would  try  the  stamina  of  a  brave  boy  ;  turnips 
and  wheat  are  grown  in  land  that  weUnigh  rattles 
with  stones  ;  only  the  cocks  and  hens  in  the  shelter 
of  the  homestead  are  removed  from  a  frightful 
struggle  for  existence.  But  the  Ufe  of  the  people  is 
more  beautiful  and  gracious  than  the  fife  of  ItaHan 
peasants. 


220  A   CORNER    OF   ULSTER 

Many  a  morning,  when  I  woke  early  and  shivered 
in  a  room  whose  fireplace  was  filled  with  the  thick 
brown  ashes  of  last  night's  fire,  I  looked  from  my 
frozen  window  upon  the  work  of  the  farm  and  felt 
cheered  and  warmed  by  the  spectacle  of  such  courage 
and  good -humour.  One  of  Maggie's  brothers, 
followed  by  a  couple  of  barking  dogs,  flapping  his 
arms  together  and  stamping  with  his  thick  boots  as 
he  came  slowly  along,  would  be  seen  driving  the 
cows  over  the  crown  of  the  snow-swept  hill ;  another 
of  these  brothers  would  cross  the  frozen  yard  wheel- 
ing gingerly  a  barrow  of  piled  and  balanced  turnips 
to  be  sHced  in  the  barn ;  Maggie's  sister  would  run 
from  the  house,  her  head  bent  against  the  wind,  and 
fetch  corn  for  the  fowls  that  streamed  after  her  in 
hungry  excitement ;  and  Maggie  herself  would  come 
to  the  door  with  something  domestic,  whose  dust 
required  to  be  shaken  in  the  wind,  and  she  would  call 
cheerful  words  to  her  brothers  through  the  flakes 
of  snow,  and  they  would  look  up  with  smiles 
and  answer  her  with  the  breath  smoking  at  their 
lips. 

And  when  the  earth  was  so  iron  with  frost  and  so 
buried  under  snow  that  work  was  impossible,  these 
brothers  would  take  their  seats  in  the  family  kitchen, 
light  their  pipes,  stretch  their  legs,  and  laugh  at  the 
weather.  Every  now  and  then  one  of  them  would 
jump  up  to  lift  a  heavy  weight  for  his  sister  or  to 
get  something  that  the  mother  required  from  across 


A   CORNER    OF   ULSTER  221 

the  room  ;  and  these  actions  were  done  with  an 
unconscious  courtesy  that  gave  them  singular  charm. 
DeHghtful  it  was  to  sit  in  the  warm  kitchen  and 
listen  to  the  talk  of  a  family  so  united  in  love,  so 
contented  with  the  toil  of  simple  Mfe,  so  untroubled 
by  our  problems. 

Port-na-blah  is  so  many  miles  from  a  town  and  so 
long  a  drive  from  even  the  smallest  railway  station, 
that  charity  there  is  not  organized,  and  humanity 
is  not  "  inspected  "  and  rate-divided  into  the  rigid 
compartments  of  local  government.  If  a  man  falls 
out  of  work,  everybody  knows  it  and  many  will 
come  personally  to  his  aid  ;  if  a  woman  is  to  give 
birth  to  a  child,  the  knitting-needles  of  the  neigh- 
bours are  busy  long  beforehand  and  someone  is 
there  to  do  all  she  can  for  mother  and  child  in  the 
hours  of  labour;  if  there  is  sickness,  sorrow,  acci- 
dent, or  deathj  the  people  are  as  one  family,  as 
one  household  united  in  brotherhood  and  kindly 
affection. 

Maggie  very  often  bakes  her  beautiful  bread  or 
brews  a  wonderful  soup  for  a  poor  neighbour,  and  the 
brothers  often  walk  across  the  moors  to  see  how 
some  old  man  is  getting  along — whether  he  has 
potatoes  and  meal  enough  for  his  needs.  As  for 
Mrs.  Mullen,  she  is  like  a  mother  to  that  community 
and  can  tell  you  the  most  moving  stories  of  the 
courage  and  the  virtue  and  the  faith  of  her  poorer 
neighbours. 


222  A    CORNER    OF    ULSTER 

One  of  the  brothers  took  me  to  call  on  a  fisherman, 
and  I  was  much  struck  by  this  man's  noble  face  and 
dignified  speech.  Just  before  I  left  the  neighbour- 
hood I  heard  that  he  had  sat  up  the  previous  night 
with  a  dying  man,  because  it  would  be  morning 
before  the  priest  could  reach  Port-na-blah. 

"  But  I  thought  he  was  a  Presbyterian,"  I  said, 
of  the  fisherman. 

"  So  he  is,"  replied  Maggie  ;  "  but  why  wouldn't 
he  be  kind  to  the  Catholics  ?  Oh  yes  !  He  often 
goes  to  sit  with  invalid  CathoHcs,  and  we  all  respect 
him  greatly,  for  he  is  a  verra  good  man." 

"  Then  there  is  no  quarrel  between  CathoUcs  and 
Protestants  ?  "  I  asked. 

She  smiled,  shaking  her  head.  "  We  are  all  good 
friends,"  she  replied.  "  And  I  cannot  see  why 
people  should  fall  out  about  their  rehgion.  Why  is  it, 
I  wonder?  It  seems  so  funny.  One  is  born  a  Catholic, 
and  another  is  born  a  Presbyterian,  and  each  must 
get  the  best  he  can  out  of  his  reHgion.  That  is 
surely  right.  But  why  wouldn't  they  Hve  neigh- 
bourly ?  Their  religion  ought  to  make  them  do 
that." 

I  visited  some  of  the  surrounding  villages  and 
met  in  every  case  the  most  pleasing  courtesy 
and  the  most  deUghtful  people.  Perhaps  they 
are  not  so  intellectually  alert  as  townsmen,  but 
they  have  calm  and  peace  and  repose.  Nor  did  I 
once  hear  from  these  great-Hmbed  men  a  grumble 


A    CORNER    OF    ULSTER  223 

about  the  struggle  for  existence.  They  said  nothing 
about  the  absence  of  Hght  railways,  the  distance 
from  a  market,  or  the  cost  of  transit.  They  spoke 
about  the  fish  in  the  loch,  of  a  famous  salmon  landed 
by  Mr.  Stephen  Gwynn — "  Musther  Gwunn  is  a  great 
gentleman" — and  of  the  beauty  of  the  mountains  in 
the  summer.  They  smoked  their  pipes  over  the 
peat  fire,  chatted  of  snipe  and  woodcock,  told  stories 
of  fashionable  visitors  in  summer,  recalled  mighty 
storms  that  had  swept  the  coast,  and  laughed  in- 
dulgently over  the  perturbation  in  Belfast  at  Mr. 
Winston  Churchill's  meeting. 

I  do  not  know  in  what  way  these  people  of  the 
North  differ  from  those  of  the  South,  save  in  a 
rather  more  vivid  cheerfulness  and  in  the  rich  Scots' 
accent  of  their  speech.  One  would  never  take  them 
for  Irishmen.  The  very  words,  as  well  as  the  in- 
tonation, are  Scottish.  But  in  tenderness,  in  sweet 
courtesy,  in  dignity  and  warm  humanity  they  are 
like  the  peasants  of  the  South.  You  feel  that  the 
scenery  has  changed  without  altering  a  thread  in 
the  fibre  of  Irish  character.  No  words  can  express 
the  difference  between  the  green  pastures  of  Kerry 
and  the  rock-strewn  moorland  of  Donegal,  but  the 
people  in  both  counties  are  the  same. 

"  You  ought  to  meet  Hannah,"  said  Maggie  to  me 
one  day ;  "  she's  a  rare  one  for  tales ;  and  she  is  verra 
old  and  has  Hved  a  strange  fife,  and  she  has  seen 
the  wee  folk,  oh  mony's  the  time  !  Mr.  Law  has  been 


224  A   CORNER   OF   ULSTER 

kind  to  Hannah — that's  the  landlord  here;  he's 
a  member  of  Parliament ;  a  verra  good  gentleman. 
Mr.  Law  has  built  her  a  wee  house,  all  for  herself  ; 
and  when  it  was  finished  and  Hannah  was  going  in, 
didn't  all  the  children  in  the  place  come  with  gifts 
for  her  ?  It  was  verra  funny.  One  brought  a  frying- 
pan,  and  one  a  broom,  and  one  a  cup  and  saucer, 
and  one  a  plate,  and  one  a  knife  and  fork,  and  one 
a  teapot,  and  one  a  kettle,  all  out  of  their  own  pennies 
— oh,  you  never  saw  such  a  thing  ! — and  Hannah 
was  quite  provided  for,  just  by  the  children.  Yes, 
it  was  verra  pretty,  verra  pretty  indeed.  But 
everybody's  fond  of  Hannah.  She's  had  a  terrible 
life  of  it,  poor  thing.  You  ought  to  see  her,  yes, 
you  really  ought.  Oh,  she's  a  rare  one  for  tales, 
Hannah  is." 

Could  anything  sound  more  inviting  ? 

"  Where  does  she  live  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Certainly  I 
must  go  and  see  her." 

Maggie  went  to  the  window  and,  pointing  out  of 
sight,  began  such  a  rigmarole  of  directions,  that  I 
stopped  her  with  the  plea  that  she  herself  should  take 
me. 

Maggie's  eyes  opened  wide,  and  her  hps  fluttered 
with  smiles. 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  ?— really  ?  " 

"  Oh,  but  yes,  of  course  I  should." 

Maggie  was  dehghted.  "  I  will  gladly  go  with 
you,"  she  said,  and  her  eyes  sparkled,  her  cheeks 


A   CORNER   OF   ULSTER  225 

burned,  and  she  looked  like  one  at  whose  door  a 
great  adventure  has  arrived. 

Such  is  the  quiet  uneventful  calm  of  Port-na-blah, 
such  the  sweet  and  humble  nature  of  Miss  Margaret 
Mullen, 


CHAPTER   XIV 
HANNAH 

ON  our  way  to  Hannah's  cabin  I  realized  how 
beautiful  a  place  Port-na-blah  must  be  in 
summer  time  and  autumn.  Maggie  told  me  what 
wild-flowers  grow  in  the  fields,  and  told  me  how  the 
hills  blaze  with  heather  and  gorse,  and  how  the  sea 
Ues  in  a  lulhng  calm,  dark  blue  against  the  tasselled 
rocks  and  cerulean  blue,  where  it  spreads  itself  like 
a  lake  far,  far  inland,  in  the  midst  of  a  green 
country. 

But  it  was  hard  going  for  us  just  then.  We 
crossed  the  iron  snow-powdered  furrows  of  a 
ploughed  field,  skirted  the  ice-cracking  sides  of 
treacherous  bog,  scaled  precipitous  hill-sides,  clam- 
bered over  stone  walls,  made  a  way  through  a 
wilderness  of  furze,  and  at  last  arrived  before 
Hannah's  door  rather  blown  and  stiff-legged,  but 
warm  with  our  exercise  in  spite  of  bitter  cold. 

Hannah's  chimney  was  smoking,  and  the  old 
lady  in  consequence  was  out  of  humour.  The  neat 
cabin  —  with  its  bed  in  the  corner,  a  bright 
dresser  against  the  wall,  a  little  table  in  the  centre, 

226 


HANNAH  227 

and  a  low  chair  before  the  fire — was  hazy  with  peat- 
smoke.  Even  as  we  entered  a  great  puff  from  the 
chimney  sent  a  cloud  of  this  thick  and  choking 
smoke  across  the  room,  and  set  Hannah  grumbUng 
afresh,  and  set  Maggie  and  me  dissembling  our 
coughs. 

But  when  we  had  sufficiently  ingratiated  our- 
selves, Hannah  became  pleasant,  and  we  sat  down 
together  for  a  friendly  talk.  On  one  side  of  the 
offending  fire  sat  the  Httle  old  woman  and  the 
beautiful  young  woman,  close  together  on  a  backless 
form,  Hannah's  hand  in  Maggie's  lap  and  Maggie's 
fingers  caressing  that  old  brown  wrinkled  hand 
with  strokings  that  were  fuU  of  endearment.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  fire,  and  nearer  to  the  welcome  fresh 
air  of  the  open  door,  sat  the  reader's  humble  ser- 
vant, Ustening  to  Maggie's  questions  and  Hannah's 
answers,  and  watching  the  face  of  the  old  woman. 

Hannah  wore  a  dark  blue  bulging  skirt,  a  shawl 
of  fading  orange,  and  a  bright  red  patterned  hand- 
kerchief over  her  head.  Although  she  is  nearer 
eighty  than  seventy,  her  hair  is  a  coal-black  without 
one  tinge  of  grey.  The  tint  of  her  skin  is  yellow, 
like  a  Parsi's,  a  deep  dull  yellow  which  suggests 
vitaUty  and  enduring  strength,  not  biliousness. 
Her  eyes  are  brown  as  chestnut  skins,  the  features 
are  smaU  and  regular.  The  total  expression  of  the 
face  is  one  of  passive  acquiescence  in  the  hard 
experience  of  human  life. 


228  HANNAH 

She  sat  crouched  up  on  the  backless  form,  at- 
tending every  now  and  then  to  the  peat  fire,  which 
was  raised  a  few  inches  above  the  hearth. 

Maggie,  very  skilfidly,  asked  questions  about 
ghosts,  and  spirits,  and  the  wee  folk.  Wearily  and 
rather  grumblingly,  like  one  who  is  near  the  end  of 
Hfe's  journey  and  desires  to  be  let  alone,  the  old 
woman  told  us  of  two  visions  she  had  seen  herself, 
and  of  many  stories  she  had  heard  from  other  people 
concerning  fairies  and  dwarfs.  When  she  was  a  girl 
in  her  father's  house,  she  came  downstairs  one 
morning  to  find  a  superb  gentleman  seated  on  an 
even  grander  horse  at  the  cottage  door.  He  was 
dressed  in  blue,  she  told  us,  and  had  gold  spurs  at 
his  heels.  He  smiled,  made  a  sign  that  she  should 
mount  behind  him,  and  bent  towards  her.  Amazed 
by  the  sight  she  ran  to  her  father  with  the  news, 
and  the  father  asked  if  the  stranger  had  beckoned 
her  to  go  away  with  him.  Hannah  said  that  he  had 
certainly  done  so.  "  Then,"  said  the  father,  with 
conviction,  "  he  is  a  Spirit."  They  both  went 
hastily  but  fearfully  to  the  door,  and  the  stranger 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

"  And  you  are  sure  it  was  a  ghost,  Hannah  ?  " 
asked  Maggie,  smiling. 

"  Whista,  but  of  course  it  was.  By  God,  Maggie 
dear,  but  he  was  terrible  nice.  A  great  gentleman,  och 
sure  !  I  never  saw  finer  man  before  or  since.  And  he 
was  gone  in  a  minute  !   Divil  a  sign  of  him  at  aU ! " 


HANNAH  229 

On  another  occasion,  as  she  was  coming  over 
the  mountain  she  saw  a  woman  kneeling  at  the 
loch-side,  washing  linen.  The  loch  was  known  to 
be  haunted,  and  Hannah  had  an  eerie  feeling  about 
this  woman.  It  was  twilight.  The  hedges  were 
whispering  with  the  antics  of  the  wee  folk.  A  cold 
wind  was  stirring  in  the  trees.  Sure  enough,  when 
Hannah  got  to  the  side  of  the  loch  the  woman  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen. 

These  stories,  as  the  reader  may  surmise,  did 
not  impress  me,  in  spite  of  Hannah's  eloquence  in 
their  narration.  I  prompted  Maggie  to  ask  other 
questions. 

"  You  remember  the  bad  times,  Hannah  ?  You 
knew  how  the  people  suffered  in  those  days  ?  You 
were  through  the  Famine  yourself,  weren't  you  ?  " 

"  Thim  times,  Maggie  dear,  were  divihsh  bad. 
Dear  God,  I  shall  never  forgit  thim  if  I  Uve  to  be 
a  hundred.  We  had  nothing  to  eat,  Maggie  dear, 
but  turnips,  boiled,  bruised,  and  sprinkled  with  a 
wee  pinch  of  salt.  No  praties  at  all,  at  all.  Och,  those 
were  terrible  times  !  And  people  who  could  not  pay 
the  rints  were  turned  out  of  their  cabins.  Ochone, 
'twas  a  most  awful  time  !  But  some  of  the 
landlords  were  good  to  us  poor  folk.  There  was 
broth  kitchens,  Maggie  dear,  and  terrible  good 
broth  too.  Och,  but  the  nearest  to  us  was  six  miles 
away,  and  the  children  sent  to  fetch  the  broth  was 
so  starving  that  they  could  not  walk  back  without 


230  HANNAH 

eating  the  broth  on  the  way.  Och,  many's  the  child 
who  came  home  with  an  empty  tin  and  near  dead 
with  the  walk.  So  the  people  were  driven  into  the 
great  workhouse,  and  my  father  and  mother  and 
aU  of  us  children  were  among  them.  But  that  was 
the  worst  of  all,  Maggie  dear  !  By  God,  it  was 
terrible  bad.  Och,  but  you've  no  idea  !  Do  you 
know  what  they  did  to  us  ?  They  served  out  some 
male  that  killed  poor  people  like  flies,  a  kind  of 
gypsy-male  they  said  it  was.*  Och,  but  you  niver 
saw  people  go  so  quick  in  your  life.  They  was 
standin'  in  the  mornin'  an'  stiff  in  the  evenin'. 
And  I  saw  things  you'll  niver  beHeve.  I  saw  the 
Matron  take  the  corpses  by  the  heels,  pull  thim  out 
of  bed  that  way,  and  go  bump,  bump,  bump  down 
the  stone  stairs  wid  thim.  True  as  God  !  They  was 
buried,  those  poor  people,  Maggie  dear,  without 
washing  or  dressing — divil  a  bit  !  Ochone,  Maggie 
dear,  but  thim  was  terrible  times." 

Partly  from  Hannah  and  partly  from  Maggie 
I  got  the  story  of  the  old  woman's  life.  I  do  not 
know  a  Hving  person  who  has  made  me  so  conscious 
of  the  immense  gulf  which  separates  the  beginning 
of  the  nineteenth  century  from  the  beginning  of  the 
twentieth. 

Hannah's  father,  a  field  labourer,  fell  out  of  work 
in  the  bad  times,  and  when  the  family  came  from 
the  workhouse  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  support 

*  I  understand  that  the  meal  was  some  inferior  Indian  corn. 


HANNAH  231 

his  family.  Hannah  went  out  as  servant  to  a 
Presbyterian  farmer. 

Her  work  was  not  confined  to  the  house.  She 
cooked,  washed,  swept,  scrubbed,  and  made  beds  ; 
but  very  much  harder  labour  fell  to  her  lot.  She 
fed  and  milked  cows,  she  pulled  turnips,  she  hoed 
and  dug  potatoes,  she  went  with  a  creel  made  of 
sally-rods  (sallows)  down  to  the  rocks  to  get  rack 
(seaweed)  for  the  farm.  When  you  hear  people 
lament  the  good  old  times  I  beg  you  to  think  of 
this  farm-servant. 

"  Och,"  she  exclaimed,  with  flashing  eyes  and 
snarling  lips,  "  that  was  a  job  that  broke  the  heart 
of  me,  fetching  the  rack  from  the  rocks.  It  scourged 
my  legs,  for  I  niver  had  boots  in  thim  days.  I  was 
barefoot  and  bare-legged  on  the  rocks.  Ah,  Maggie 
dear,  'tis  terrible  bad  to  have  your  feet  and  hands 
aching  at  the  wan  time.  I  could  not  wash  me  feet 
at  night.  The  skin  was  scourged  clean  off  of  thim. 
If  God  had  made  a  hole  in  thim  rocks  and  offered 
to  put  me  in  head  down,  I'd  have  gone,  I'd  have  been 
glad  to  hang  head  down — just  to  get  off  my  feet. 
Ah,  sure  !  It  was  devilish  bad  in  the  rain  and  the 
wind  up  in  the  turnip  fields,  but,  by  God,  it  was 
worse  on  thim  rocks.  You'll  never  know  the  like  of 
that,  Maggie  dear  ;  and  as  true  as  God's  above  us 
I'd  rather  die  to-morrow,  or  next  day,  than  Live 
my  Ufe  over  again — och  sure,  I  would  !  " 

Now,  what  wages  do  you  think  this  farm-servant 


232  HANNAH 

received  ?  In  those  brave  days  no  blasphemer  had 
arrived  to  say  that  human  flesh  and  bones  must 
receive  a  living  wage.  It  was  beUeved  by  aU  man- 
kind, as  it  is  beHeved  in  Belfast  to  this  hour,  that 
wages  are  not  to  be  measured  by  the  work  done 
or  by  the  cost  of  living  or  by  the  laws  of  God  and 
Brotherhood,  but  only  by  the  numbers  of  hungry 
people  asking  for  work.  Many  hands,  small  wages  ; 
few  hands,  high  wages.  The  proposition  was  so 
simple  and  emphatic,  however  damnable,  that  no 
man  questioned  it.  Even  to-day,  in  St.  Paul's 
Cathedral,  at  the  very  heart  of  Chiistian  civiliza- 
tion, a  sermon  was  preached  on  Easter  Sunday  of 
the  present  year,  expressing  alarm  and  misgiving 
at  the  manful,  law-abiding  demands  of  coUiers  for 
a  wage  by  which  a  man  may  rear  his  family  just 
out  of  the  shadow  of  privation. 

Well,  Hannah's  wage  was  not  five  shilhngs  a 
day,  as  you  may  well  suppose.  But  will  you 
beUeve  that  it  was  ten  shillings  a  half-year  ? 

"  They  paid  me  ten  shillings  a  half-year,  and  my 
keep  ;  but  I  had  to  find  my  own  duds.  The  food 
was  stirabout  and  praties  ;  och,  there  was  not  too 
much  of  it  !  Meat  ? — divil  a  bit  !  I  niver  tasted 
it."    She  laughed  bitterly  at  the  idea. 

This  place  was  too  hard  for  the  young  girl.  She 
fell  ill  and  was  turned  away.  Apparently  the 
Presbyterian  farmer  and  his  wife  did  not  care  a 
rap  what  became  of  the  friendless  and  orphan  girl ; 


HANNAH  233 

they  were  too  busy,  I  suspect,  in  deciphering  the 
Word  of  God.  After  a  spell  of  idleness  she  became 
nurse  and  general  servant  in  another  farm-house, 
at  the  same  wage.  There  was  in  the  neighbourhood 
at  that  time  a  hedge  preacher  whom  the  people 
called  Old  Livingstone.  Some  boys  on  one  occasion 
were  sent  to  prison  for  pushing  him  as  he  walked 
through  the  road  where  they  were  pla3dng  ;  the 
case  was  cited  as  one  of  Catholic  Intolerance  ! 
Old  Livingstone,  with  his  Bible  and  staff,  came  to 
the  Presbyterian  farm-house  where  Hannah  was 
employed.  His  penetrating  eyes,  which  tore  the 
Judgments  of  God  out  of  Holy  Writ,  detected  a 
rash  on  Hannah's  red  arms.  He  warned  the  mistress 
of  the  house  against  having  such  a  woman  with 
her  children.  So  Hannah  was  turned  away,  and 
having  no  home  to  go  to,  no  friend  in  the  world  to 
take  pity  on  her,  she  went  to  the  workhouse. 

Maggie  told  me  the  next  part  of  Hannah's  story 
as  we  walked  home  across  the  moor.  "  Poor 
Hannah,  she  was  terrible  bad  in  the  workhouse, 
and  they  told  her  there  that  if  she  didn't  go  into 
the  hospital  she  would  surely  die.  The  hospital 
was  at  Strabane,  forty  long  Irish  miles  away,  but 
Hannah  set  out,  all  by  herself,  and  walked  the 
whole  distance.  Oh,  that  must  have  been  terrible, 
terrible  for  Hannah.  I  often  think  of  her,  iU  and 
weary,  walking  that  long  way,  all  by  herself  !  " 

Then  Maggie's  face,  which  had  been  sad  and 


234  HANNAH 

sorrowful,  suddenly  brightened.  "  But  it  was  a 
happy  time  when  she  reached  the  hospital.  Oh, 
it  was  so  different  !  And  didn't  the  doctor's 
wife,  who  was  the  Matron,  take  a  fancy  to  Hannah 
because  she  was  so  clean,  and  didn't  she  take  her 
into  her  own  house  to  look  after  her  children,  and 
wasn't  Hannah  treated  hke  one  of  the  family,  and 
all  so  happy  and  kind  ?  I  do  not  know  how  long 
she  was  there,  but  it  was  some  time,  and  she  was 
verra  grateful ;  but  gradually  her  health  got  worse 
and  worse,  and  at  last  she  was  too  weak  to  do  the 
work,  and  so  she  had  to  leave.  And  then  poor 
Hannah  drifted  to  the  workhouse  again." 

From  this  point  in  her  life  down  to  quite  modern 
times  Hannah  lived  by  "  collecting."  Maggie 
made  me  feel  the  difference  between  begging  and 
collecting.  "  Hannah,"  said  she,  "  started  collect- 
ing— she  was  not  a  beggar-woman,  you  understand, 
but  she  went  from  village  to  village,  and  she 
called  at  farm-houses,  and  they  gave  her  food  and 
shelter,  and  sometimes  a  sixpence  to  help  her  on  her 
road." 

Thus  Hved  Hannah  for  half  a  century,  a  homeless 
wanderer  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  but  with  many 
a  kitchen  where  she  might  lie  down  and  sleep  for 
the  night,  and  many  a  friend  who  was  glad  to  give 
her  a  meal  of  potatoes  and  a  cup  of  cold  water.  She 
was  always  clean,  always  polite,  always  grateful 
for  a  kind  word. 


HANNAH  285 

She  asked  for  "  bits  "  in  the  name  of  God,  and 
paid  for  it  by  telling  the  news  she  had  gathered  on 
her  way  or  by  doing  service  in  the  house. 

Her  old  head  nods,  and  her  eyes  have  a  far-off 
melancholy  look  as  she  speaks  of  those  days. 
" People  was  terrible  kind  to  me,"  she  says  ;  "I 
don't  suppose  anybody  ever  had  more  friends  than 
I  have  had  ;  but,  Maggie  dear,  it  was  lonely,  it 
was  terrible  lonely.  Ah,  to  Hve  fifty  years  without 
a  home,  all  alone,  all  alone,  going  to  and  fro,  to 
and  fro — by  God,  Maggie  dear,  but  that's  hard  on 
a  woman  !  " 

People  for  miles  round  had  a  great  respect  for 
the  wandering  gipsy-like  Hannah.  They  attributed 
to  the  old  woman  some  mysterious  relationship 
with  the  saints.  They  beheved  that  she  was 
different  from  the  common  herd  of  mortaUty.  A 
sailor  lad  once  gave  her  half  a  crown,  because  she 
prayed  for  him,  and  because  her  prayers  had  brought 
him  luck.  People  would  gladly  give  the  old  woman 
a  sixpence  in  the  hope  of  receiving  a  cake  from 
heaven.  But  Hannah  seldom  spent  this  money  on 
herself.  She  would  give  nearly  all  of  it  to  Sisters 
of  Charity  or  to  the  priest  of  the  village  church  at 
which  she  went  to  Mass.  Once,  when  she  was  very 
hard  -  driven,  someone  gave  her  a  florin ;  she 
bestowed  the  whole  of  the  money  on  a  fund  for 
building  a  village  chapel. 

"  Och,  but  I  knew  I  should  niver  want  for  it," 


236  HANNAH 

she  exclaimed  ;  "  and  sure  enough  that  very  night 
I  made  up  one  shillin'  and  ninepence  !  " 

"  Hannah  always  gives  with  the  heart,"  said 
Maggie. 

"Oh,  God,  would  you  give  with  anything  else, 
Maggie  dear  ?  Isn't  it  the  duty  of  all  of  us  to  love 
and  to  give  ?  Is  it  any  use  to  us,  saving  and  putting 
by,  whin  there's  heaven  waiting  for  us  in  the  next 
world  ?  Sure,  I'd  give  myself  away  if  it  would 
help  a  poor  body." 

"  And  God  has  been  good  to  you,  hasn't  He, 
Hannah  ?  You've  got  plenty  of  friends  and  now 
you've  got  this  nice  Httle  house.  ..." 

"  But  the  chimney's  a  terrible  worry,  Maggie  dear. 
Ochone  !  what  can  I  do  to  keep  the  place  clean, 
wid  smoke  pouring  out  and  spoiling  everything  ? 
By  Grod,  I  wish  Mr.  Law  would  do  something  to  the 
chimney." 

If  the  reader  would  like  to  meet  Hannah  and  to 
discover  if  the  chimney  has  been  put  right  by  her 
indulgent  host,  let  him  write  for  a  room  to  Mrs. 
Mullen,  at  Port-na-blah,  Dunfanaghy,  By  Letter- 
kenny,  Co.  Donegal.  But  if  he  must  have  a  French 
cook  to  prepare  his  meals,  electric  Hght  for  his 
reading,  fashionable  people  to  amuse  him,  and  a 
lift  to  carry  him  up  to  a  prince's  bedroom,  let  him 
write  to  Lord  Leitrim's  now  famous  Rosapenna 
Hotel,  at  Carrigart,  which  is  within  a  motor  drive 
of  Port-na-blah. 


HANNAH  237 

I  can  promise  any  man  who  loves  great  hills, 
a  wild  coast,  a  splendid  sea,  lochs  Hke  inland  oceans, 
and  a  kindly  aristocracy  of  peasants,  the  very 
Paradise  of  his  desire  at  Rosapenna  or  at  Port-na- 
blah. 

I  hang  upon  this  page,  dreaming  of  my  walks 
and  drives  and  meetings  on  that  wonderful  coast, 
not  only  because  the  memories  are  so  sweet  and 
gracious  to  my  thoughts,  but  because  in  turning  the 
page  I  turn  my  back  on  all  that  is  most  beautiful, 
affectionate,  and  comforting  in  Ireland,  and  come 
face  to  face  with  that  which  is  sinister  and  harsh. 

Kind,  gentle  Maggie,  I  hope  that  you  may  never 
go  to  cities  ;  poor,  grumbUng  Hannah,  I  hope  you 
may  never  exchange  the  smoke  of  your  peat-fire  for 
the  smoke  of  factory  chimneys.  Winter  may  be 
long,  and  loud  may  be  the  storms  that  beat  upon 
your  tortured  coast,  but  the  summer  comes  with 
flowers  for  your  fields,  with  sweetness  for  your  pure 
air,  and  with  sunsets  flooding  the  smooth  waters  of 
Sheep  Haven  with  glory  and  with  calm. 


CHAPTER   XV 
AT  THE   GATE   OF   DEMOCRACY 

WE  have  now  arrived  before  a  door  which  I 
shrink  from  opening.  Behind  us  are  green 
fields,  green-bordered  roads,  the  wayside  cottages 
of  a  happy  peasantry,  the  beauty  of  primitive 
existence,  the  humble  contentments  of  natural  life, 
the  scent  of  flowers,  the  shadows  of  trees,  the  music 
of  cool  waters,  the  silence  and  repose  of  the  hiUs, 
the  quiet  going  of  the  day,  the  quiet  coming  of  the 
night.  And  beyond  the  door  there  is  the  factory, 
the  slum,  the  struggle  for  wages,  the  problems, 
questions,  and  confusions  of  unnatural  life,  a 
murmur  of  many  voices,  a  thrusting  of  many  hands, 
the  unrest  of  many  hearts. 

Poverty  can  be  beautiful ;  and  toil,  even  for  a 
bare  subsistence,  can  be  gracious.  Such  poverty 
as  I  saw  in  the  villages  of  Ireland  did  not  distress 
me,  did  not  ever  shock  or  pain  me  ;  and  the  labour 
of  the  fields,  however  hard  and  disheartening,  did 
not  depress  my  feelings.  On  the  contrary,  I  was 
often  conscious  of  a  certain  envy  in  my  commerce 
with  the  peasants  of  Ireland  ;    for  if  their  poverty 

238 


AT   THE    GATE    OF   DEMOCRACY     239 

is  afflicting,  it  does  not  embitter  them  ;  it  seems 
to  purify  and  sweeten  them  ;  and  if  their  toil  is 
hard,  it  is  at  least  never  out  of  partnership  with 
hope. 

A  peasant  has  always  the  weather  to  make  every 
day  an  adventure.  The  mere  sitting  of  a  broody 
hen  lends  curiosity  and  expectation  to  three  whole 
weeks  of  human  hfe.  The  farrowing  of  a  sow  is  like 
a  great  ship  coming  into  harbour.  Can  a  man  be 
ever  broken  to  settled  melancholy  who  has  a  garden 
to  dig,  a  field  to  plant,  and  a  byre  to  bed  down  with 
bracken  for  a  heifer  or  a  kid  ?  Is  life  ever  an  un- 
broken speU  of  duUness  when  the  frost  of  one  night 
may  darken  the  young  leaves  of  a  potato  crop,  and 
a  shower  of  rain  may  bring  a  shining  greenness  to 
a  field  of  drooping  wheat  ?  And  consider  the  ex- 
citation of  the  weekly  market  in  the  town  across 
the  moor.  It  is  something  better  than  a  boom  on 
the  Stock  Exchange. 

Few  things  in  rural  Ireland  are  prettier  than  the 
bhthe  co-operation  of  the  children  in  the  Hfe  of  their 
parents.  You  see  very  jolly  pudding-faced  boys 
driving  home  the  cows  through  glens  and  over 
moors  ;  you  see  them  at  sunset  coming  back  from 
hunting  the  hedges,  holding  by  the  four  corners 
red  handkerchiefs  swoUen  out  with  hen's  eggs ; 
you  see  them  with  buckets  and  boxes  collecting 
stones  from  a  tillage  field  ;  you  see  them  scaring 
rooks  from  the  young  corn ;    you  see  them  on  a 


240     AT   THE   GATE    OF   DEMOCRACY 

perilous  cliff  of  black  bog  learning  to  cut  peat  for 
the  winter's  stack ;  and  you  see  them  hoeing 
between  the  lines  of  potatoes  or  stumbling  proudly 
beside  their  fathers  at  the  plough's  tail.  And  you 
see  the  girls  feeding  the  fowls,  scalding  the  cream 
over  a  peat  fire,  helping  their  mothers  to  bake 
bread,  mending  the  family  linen,  and  driving  along 
the  country  roads  in  donkey-carts  Uttle  bigger  than 
a  wheelbarrow,  rope  reins  in  the  left  hand,  a  hazel 
wand  in  the  right,  a  baby  brother's  fat  scared  face 
peeping  over  the  side  of  the  jolting  cart. 

Such  life  is  natural  and  happy  ;  it  is  Uke  the 
playing  of  a  game.  Even  the  boys  picking  stones 
from  tillage  probably  imagine  themselves  victorious 
soldiers  collecting  loot ;  while  in  scaring  rooks  from 
the  wheat,  without  doubt  they  are  unconquerable 
knights  defying  ogres  and  giants.  But  imagine  the 
feelings  of  the  pretty  maids  who  sit  on  the  edge  of 
a  tiny  cart,  and  drive  a  diminutive  but  trotting 
donkey  into  the  market-town  !  Gnderella,  we  may 
be  sure,  never  journeyed  in  more  gorgeous  coach. 
Children  always  make  a  game  of  everything  they 
do  ;  and  the  only  life  that  God  provided  for  the 
children  of  men  is  full  of  opportunities  for  play. 

How  many  children  in  cities,  even  well-off 
suburban  children,  would  think  it  heaven  to  possess 
a  little  donkey  in  a  tumble-down  shed,  whose  coat 
they  must  brush  and  whose  manger  they  must  fill  ? 
— a  serious  and  real  donkey,  of  course  :   a  donkey 


BELFAST  FACTORY  GIKLS. 


AT   THE   GATE    OF   DEMOCRACY     241 

to  be  harnessed  and  backed  and  buckled  into  shafts 
for  important  journeys,  who  must  carry  chickens, 
butter,  eggs,  and  cream  to  the  market  and  return 
proudly  with  shillings  and  half-crowns,  with  wonder- 
ful jars  and  bottles  and  tins  and  packets  from  the 
grocer's  shop,  to  be  greeted  by  an  excited  family 
at  the  cottage  door — not  a  mere  seaside  donkey, 
thwacked  up  and  down  the  sands,  kicking  but 
depressed,  with  hysterical  and  purple-faced  spinster- 
hood  bumping  on  its  back. 

Catch  a  child  young  enough,  keep  his  mind  un- 
corrupted  by  the  contagion  of  noisy  cities,  see  that 
he  has  a  sufficiency  of  raspberry  jam  with  his  bread 
and  butter,  and  this  is  the  Hfe  he  wiU  enjoy,  this  is 
the  employment  which  will  best  develop  the  most 
vigorous  of  his  virtues.  Such  a  child  will  not  miss, 
because  he  has  never  known,  the  heating  excitement 
and  the  feverish  raptures  of  picture  palace  and 
skating  rink,  the  whistHng  obsession  of  a  music- 
hall  song  degrading  love,  or  the  satisfaction  of  a 
cynical  catch-phrase  that  cheapens  earthly  Hfe. 
He  wiU  grow  in  communion  with  the  elemental 
powers  of  nature,  wiU  take  a  colour  from  sunrise 
and  sunset,  will  respond  to  the  great  rhythmic 
movements  of  the  labouring  year,  will  acquire  the 
calm,  the  serenity,  the  confidence  of  his  travelling 
companions  the  beasts  of  the  field,  and,  if  he  has 
poetry  in  his  mind,  love  in  his  heart,  and  faith  in 
his  soul,  he  wiU  go  down  the  hiU  of  life,  even  into 


242     AT   THE    GATE    OF   DEMOCRACY 

the  shadow  of  the  grave,  without  fear  and  without 
regret.  There  will  be  a  certain  dignity  in  his  face, 
a  wonderful  sweetness  in  his  soul. 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  one  of  our  peasants  die  ?  " 
I  was  asked  by  a  Roman  CathoHc  theologian.  "  I 
have  not  seen  very  many,"  he  continued,  "  but  as 
long  as  I  Hve  I  shall  never  forget  the  experience. 
I  confess  that  I  myself  am  afraid  of  death.  It  seems 
terrible  to  me.  But  these  people  see  the  angels, 
they  smile  with  transfigured  faces,  they  reach  out 
their  arms,  they  expire  with  a  sigh  of  rapture  and 
content.  Nothing  could  be  more  beautiful.  Nothing, 
nothing.  Oh,  most  beautiful !  And  all  over  Ireland 
it  is  the  same  ;  our  parish  priests  tell  us  that  at 
the  death-beds  of  the  peasants  they  seem  to  feel 
the  presence  of  the  angels,  almost  to  see  the  invisible 
world." 

This  life  of  which  I  am  speaking,  man's  natural 
life — the  life,  be  it  remembered,  to  which  the  poet 
and  the  painter  go  for  beauty  and  tenderness — 
has  religion  for  its  determining  power.  A  peasant, 
one  knows  very  weU,  may  be  a  brute,  a  degenerate, 
or  a  mere  dense,  soUd,  and  unreachable  clod  ;  and 
if  he  is  starved  in  childhood,  left  ignorant  through- 
out boyhood,  and  in  manhood  is  housed  like  a  hog 
and  paid  a  dog's  wage  for  incessant  work  by  a 
master  who  despises  him,  one  of  these  three  he 
must  almost  certainly  become.  But  if  love — conse- 
crated by  religion — ^nurses  him  on  her  breast  and 


AT   THE    GATE    OF   DEMOCRACY     243 

watches  over  him  in  his  cradle  ;  if  kindness — in- 
spired by  religion — teaches  him  in  childhood  not 
only  to  read  and  write,  but  to  observe  and  reflect ; 
if  in  manhood  he  has  land  of  his  own  to  cultivate, 
a  house  of  his  own  to  roof  and  paint  and  care  for, 
children  of  his  own  laughing  at  his  knee,  a  wife  of 
his  own  saving  and  contriving  for  him  and  sharing 
all  his  hopes  and  fears,  a  soul  of  his  own  to  address 
its  quite  simple  and  articulate  longings  to  the  God 
he  naturally  loves  and  instinctively  worships — then 
there  will  be  such  a  beauty  in  his  life  as  the  dweller 
in  cities  can  never  reach  and  an  almost  perpetual 
gladness  in  his  heart  which  they  but  seldom  even 
glimpse. 

It  is  a  matter  of  rehgion.  The  greatest  illusion 
of  modern  life  is  the  illusion  bred  by  crowded  and 
distracting  cities,  where  men  herd  together  out  of 
all  touch  with  mortahty's  natural  environment — 
the  illusion  that  reUgion  is  a  school  of  thought,  a 
code  of  morals,  a  disputed  field  in  the  hazardous 
territory  of  philosophy.  To  the  savage,  above 
everything  else,  rehgion  is  fear.  To  the  Christian,  it 
is  love. 

ReUgion,  first  and  foremost,  is  worship,  adoration, 
love.  Rehgion  is  poetry.  The  theologian's  effort 
to  make  it  mathematics  has  been  disastrous,  both 
for  rehgion  and  for  his  own  authority  over  mankind. 
No  ;   rehgion  is  poetry. 

A  peasant  walking  home  from  his  fields  under  the 


244     AT    THE    GATE    OF    DEMOCRACY 

stars,  shadowed  by  the  mystery  of  night,  conscious 
of  an  indestructible  self  in  the  midst  of  a  universe's 
silence,  and  moved  by  the  majesty  of  the  firmament 
to  lift  his  thoughts  to  the  many  resting-places  of 
immortality,  knows  as  certainly  as  he  knows  his 
work  in  the  fields  that  rehgion  is  worship,  adora- 
tion, love.  You  might  make  havoc  of  his  theology, 
you  might  prove  to  him  that  he  had  never  thought 
out  his  definitions ;  but  you  could  not  shake 
him  an  inch  from  the  ground  of  his  spiritual  life — 
that  the  soul  of  rehgion  is  worship,  adoration,  love. 
He  can  conceive  of  no  other  relation  for  his  soul 
towards  his  Creator. 

"  Love  God,"  said  St.  Augustine,  "  and  do  what 
you  like."  CathoUc  teaching  lays  all  its  emphasis 
on  Love  ;  and  because  Protestantism  is  given  to 
insisting  on  errors  and  manifest  follies  in  Catholic 
theology,  we  are  apt  to  miss  the  central  reason 
of  its  persistence  and  its  power — the  emphasis 
of  Love.  More  perhaps  in  Ireland  than  any  othei 
country  of  the  world  does  the  Catholic  priest  teach 
his  people  before  everything  else  to  love  God,  to 
love,  worship,  and  adore  the  Infinite  Father. 
And  because  the  Irish  are  by  nature  loving  and 
imaginative  and  tender,  they  respond  to  this 
teaching,  develop  it  in  their  daily  hfe,  and  die  with 
a  smile  of  love  upon  their  hps.  Rehgion  to  them 
is  as  real  as  life. 

To  the  man  bred  and  born  in  a  city,  and  accus- 


AT   THE   GATE    OF   DEMOCRACY     246 

tomed  to  get  his  religious  notions  from  books,  it 
seems  a  difficult  thing  to  love  God.  He  uses  the 
phrase,  but  he  doubts  the  idea.  Religion,  for  him, 
is  not  safe  without  elaborate  safeguards.  He  cannot 
move  without  a  dogma  ;  one  blow  from  science  on 
a  single  article  of  his  behef  and  the  whole  edifice  of 
his  rehgious  hfe  shivers  with  apprehension.  But 
a  child  whose  world  is  nature,  taught  to  feel  rever- 
ence and  love  for  the  Creator  of  all  visible  things, 
brought  gradually  to  conceive  the  beautiful  idea 
of  Fatherhood  in  the  universe,  does  not  find  worship 
difficult,  is  unconscious  of  the  need  for  dogma.  It 
is  almost  impossible  not  to  love  God  in  a  life  that 
is  full  of  blessing. 

I  do  not  know,  but  I  imagine,  I  am  almost  certain, 
that  no  rehgion  can  really  penetrate  and  transfuse 
with  divinity  the  whole  nature  of  man  that  is  with- 
out the  exaltation  of  worship  and  the  sweetness  of 
love.  "  Love  God,  and  do  what  you  Uke  " — this 
seems  to  me  the  only  theology  that  can  endure,  the 
only  exposition  of  religion  that  can  satisfy  the 
heart.  It  is  the  highest  teaching,  the  simplest,  the 
most  natural.  Love  God,  and  everything  else 
foUows. 

But,  this  all  Hes  behind  us  in  the  green  fields. 
The  door  must  be  opened,  poetry  and  imagination 
must  be  put  into  quarantine,  our  baggage  must 
be  examined  for  superstitions  and  sentiment  at  the 
custom-house,   and  we  ourselves   must  cross   the 


246     AT   THE    GATE    OF    DEMOCRACY 

frontier  and  enter  the  courts  of  Materialism  like 
good  sensible  commercial  travellers,  or  at  any  rate 
like  rational  positivists. 

Ere  this  be  done,  however,  I  would  ask  the  reader 
to  keep  in  his  mind,  as  we  pass  over  the  threshold 
to  the  other  side,  the  character  of  the  Irish  peasant 
and  the  nature  of  his  simple  life.  I  would  ask  him, 
before  we  enter  the  other  Ireland,  to  question 
civihzation's  pity  for  primitive  field-labourers,  and 
to  ask  himself  whether  the  Hfe  of  the  humblest 
peasant,  in  the  ultimate  analysis,  may  not  be  full 
of  the  truest  beauty  and  the  purest  grandeur. 

After  all,  how  far  is  the  Irish  peasant — "the 
minister  in  that  vast  temple  which  only  the  sky  is 
vast  enough  to  embrace  " — how  far  is  he  worse  off  in 
aU  that  makes  for  happiness  and  beauty,  for  dignity 
and  grandeur,  than  the  shop-assistant  in  Clapham, 
the  retired  captain  in  Kensington,  the  palmist  in  Bond 
Street,  the  club  waiter  in  PaU  MaU,  the  commission- 
aire at  the  door  of  a  draper's  shop  in  Regent  Street  ? 
He  sees  fewer  people  ;  but  his  relations  with  those 
that  he  does  see  are  close  and  intimate  enough  for 
real  affection  or  decided  aversion.  He  has  neither 
theatre  nor  music-haU  to  reUeve  the  fatigue  of  his 
evening ;  but  he  goes  early  to  bed  and  sleeps  deeply, 
gloriously,  without  the  jingle  of  a  vulgar  song  running 
through  his  dreams.  He  has  no  bus  or  tram  roar- 
ing past  his  door,  and  no  underground  railway 
vibrating  beneath  his  kitchen  floor  ;    but  his  walk 


AT   THE    GATE    OF   DEMOCRACY     247 

to  his  work  is  over  sweet-smelling  fields  with  larks 
singing  in  the  sky  above  his  head.  He  earns  less 
money ;  but  his  needs  are  simpler.  He  knows 
nothing  of  the  victories  of  Progress ;  but  he  escapes 
its  vulgarities.  There  is  no  movement  in  his  Hfe  ; 
but  he  goes  where  he  would.  His  contact  with 
civiHzation  is  less  vital ;  but  his  contact  with  nature 
is  continual.  He  is  behind  the  times  ;  but  he  has 
time  for  his  home.  He  is  ignorant  of  art,  Hterature, 
music  ;  but  his  Hfe  is  art,  literature,  and  music. 
He  is  boorish  ;  but  he  is  real.  He  has  no  vision  ;  but 
what  need  ? — he  beheves  that  God  is  at  his  side. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
MANUFACTURED  MORTALITY 

ALL  the  problems  of  civilization  belong  to  con- 
gested cities.  And  the  great  concernment 
of  modern  existence  in  these  massed  and  knotted 
thickenings  of  the  human  race  is  a  matter  of  Money. 
For  it  is  not  only  the  dim  millions  of  the  labour 
world  who  struggle  for  higher  wages.  The  greed  of 
all  men  is  for  greater  wealth.  The  manufacturer 
and  the  merchant,  the  tradesman  and  the  company 
promoter,  strive  every  day  to  augment  their  annual 
profits.  The  landlord  increases  his  rent,  the  pro- 
fessional man  his  fees.  The  salesman  already  rich 
advertises  to  get  more  customers.  The  newspaper, 
already  boasting  an  immense  circulation,  has  a  staff 
at  work  perpetually  engaged  in  poaching  the  circula- 
tion of  a  rival.  No  one  sets  a  Hmit  to  his  desires 
in  respect  of  money.  Money  is  the  great  reward. 
More  money,  and  ever  more  money,  is  the  object  of 
existence.  Humanity  begins  to  think  that  there  is 
nothing  else. 

One  may  say  fairly  that  every  crowded  centre  of 
industrialism  is  a  Capital  of  Mammon.     It  repre- 

248 


MANUFACTURED    MORTALITY        249 

sents  humanity's  definite  rejection  of  Christ's  funda- 
mental teaching,  the  definite  determination  of 
society  to  organize  itself  without  God.  And  yet  not 
quite  without  God  ;  rehgion  is  there  as  policeman, 
and  conscience  is  bribed  by  charities  towards  others 
to  leave  its  own  soul  in  quiet.  But  you  can  have 
immense  rehgious  activity  without  God.  From  time 
to  time  a  rumble  of  discontent  from  the  underworld 
of  labour  frightens  and  terrifies  civiHzation  ;  or  a 
struggle,  a  pressure,  and  an  actual  upheaval  from 
those  who  are  below,  stops  the  running  of  the  huge 
complex  machinery  of  social  hfe  and  brings  national 
existence  to  the  edge  of  confusion.  But  the  difii- 
culty  is  adjusted  ;  the  engines  throb  again,  the  wheels 
turn,  and  society  pursues  its  accustomed  way — ^in 
quest  of  money. 

Cities  breed  the  forger,  the  swindhng  financier, 
the  burglar,  the  pickpocket,  the  hooligan,  the  pimp, 
the  bully,  and  the  harlot — all  monstrous  deformities 
of  human  nature,  and  all  engaged,  Hke  the  more 
reputable  members  of  the  community,  in  a  hunger 
and  thirst  after  money. 

And  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  a  great  city  are  tinged 
by  this  supreme  and  overshadowing  question  of 
money.  The  utmost  blessing  is  to  make  a  fortune  ; 
the  utmost  disaster  is  to  lose  one.  A  man's  happi- 
ness is  measured  by  the  amount  of  his  income. 
A  man's  lack  of  money  is  the  standard  of  his 
wretchedness.     Everybody  struggles  to  dress  as  if 


250        MANUFACTURED   MORTALITY 

he  were  richer  than  he  really  is.  Everybody  is 
anxious  to  seem  prosperous  and  fashionable  and 
successful.  Men  and  women  even  deny  themselves 
the  highest  and  most  rapturous  blessings  of  exist- 
ence in  order  to  deceive  the  general  world  as  to 
their  social  position.  Women  will  avoid  having 
children  in  order  that  they  may  have  furs  ;  men 
wiU  do  without  a  garden  in  order  that  they  may  go 
in  coloured  socks.  And  the  lack  of  higher  things 
is  not  felt ;  the  sacrifice  of  aU  that  is  beautiful 
and  noble  is  made  quite  willingly,  even  cheer- 
fully ;  in  their  judgment  they  have  chosen  the 
better  part,  they  are  perfectly  content,  they  are 
happy.  A  chorus  girl  in  a  comic  opera  despises 
the  peasant  woman  smiling  at  a  baby  on  her 
breast,  and  is  not  conscious  of  her  own  abysmal 
inferiority. 

The  degrading  meanness  of  this  Hfe,  the  destruc- 
tive triviality  of  this  vulgar  burlesque  of  human 
existence,  is  only  possible  where  contact  with  natural 
conditions  is  either  sHght  or  broken,  or  where 
religion  and  imagination  are  inoperative.  But  such 
a  hfe  has  a  most  extraordinary  infection,  a  most 
bewildering  contagion.  Certain  writers,  for  in- 
stance, have  always  been  fond  of  pointing  to  the 
suburbs  of  London  as  the  exclusive  region  of  what 
we  call  snobbishness  ;  but  to  anyone  who  truly 
knows  the  world  precisely  the  same  spirit  of  snob- 
bishness   which    characterizes    the    suburbs   char- 


MANUFACTURED   MORTALITY        251 

acterizes  also  the  very  centre  of  metropolitan  exist- 
ence and  the  very  slums  of  deprivation  and  misery. 
Among  aristocracy  there  is  a  money  rivaby,  a  com- 
petition of  fashion,  a  childish  and  unworthy  dehght 
in  ostentation  and  mere  show  ;  indeed,  although 
the  people  themselves  are  more  agreeable  and 
charming,  I  think  the  spirit  of  snobbishness  is  worse 
among  aristocracy  than  among  the  middle-classes. 
It  is  only  the  "  scenical  differences  "  that  hide  the 
truth.  As  for  the  workman  and  the  artisan,  you 
will  find,  at  any  rate  among  their  wives,  more 
vulgar  pride,  more  fooHsh  conceit,  more  con- 
temptible efforts  at  show  and  vainglory  than  exists 
in  the  most  pohshed  corners  of  West  Kensington. 
"  Tenpenny  Dick,"  said  Mr.  John  Burns,  "  will  not 
speak  to  Sixpenny  Jack." 

But  the  strangest  contagion  of  this  mean  life  is 
to  be  found  among  the  thinkers  of  a  great  city,  the 
writers  and  philosophers,  the  preachers  and  the 
poUticians,  who  probably  began  Ufe  with  far  other 
notions.  Men  otherwise  free  from  all  snobbishness, 
able  and  briUiant  men  genuinely  in  search  of  truth, 
are  so  infected  by  the  general  vulgarity  that  they 
too  exalt  this  question  of  Wages  to  the  supreme  place 
in  modern  problems.  They  actually  beHeve,  ap- 
parently, that  could  wages  be  handsomely  raised 
all  round  society  would  be  safe,  civihzation  would 
be  secure,  and  civihzation  could  pursue  in  peace  its 
progress  towards — What  ?    That  is  the  question. 


252        MANUFACTURED   MORTALITY 

Do  they  ever  think  that  without  its  natural  purpose 
and  its  natural  objective,  the  soul  of  man  can  never 
be  at  rest  ? 

Every  poHtical  party  is  engaged  over  this  question 
of  Wages.  The  Conservatives  declare  that  Tariff 
Reform  would  raise  wages  ;  the  Liberals  declare  that 
Free  Trade  alone  can  keep  the  cost  of  living  within 
the  limits  of  the  average  wage  ;  the  Labour  Party 
and  the  SociaMsts  exist  to  force  expenditure  and 
to  increase  wages  for  the  working-classes.  Every 
serious  man  is  now  thinking  of  Hfe  in  terms  of 
political  economy.  It  is  the  illusion  of  cities,  the 
obsession  of  unnatural  and  artificial  existence. 

But  Life  is  more  than  Wages.  There  is  something 
which  money  cannot  buy,  something  indeed  that 
the  very  possession  of  money  may  destroy,  some- 
thing at  any  rate  the  value  of  which  a  covetous 
pursuit  of  money  must  obscure  and  obHterate.  The 
oldest  platitudes  are  the  simplest  truths.  The  shirt- 
less man  may  be  happier  than  the  king.  Not  what 
a  man  possesses  but  what  he  enjoys  is  the  blessing 
of  his  life.  Let  a  man  gain  the  whole  world  and 
lose  his  soul  alive,  and  the  bargain  is  a  bad  one. 

Until  mankind  comes  back  to  the  ancient  wisdom 
of  human  experience,  the  problem  of  civilization 
will  be  the  problem  of  cities,  and  the  problem  of 
cities  wiU  be  the  problem  of  Wages.  And  that 
problem  is  insoluble.  Raise  wages,  and  if  you  do 
nothing    more,    you    increase    your    difficulties    a 


MANUFACTURED    MORTALITY        253 

thousandfold.  Corrupt  human  nature  by  con- 
centrating its  thoughts  on  money,  turn  it  from  the 
divine  goal  of  its  existence  by  encouraging  this 
search  for  happiness  in  wages,  and  you  will  bring 
into  the  world  a  race  of  beings  with  whom  no  Act  of 
Parhament  can  deal,  no  communism  of  a  democratic 
State  can  satisfy.  You  will  have  then  not  a  race 
of  men  made  in  the  image  of  God,  but  a  race  of 
gods  made  in  the  image  of  animals. 

Among  the  peasants  of  Ireland — whose  joys  and 
sorrows  are  commingled  with  the  great  business  of 
Birth  and  Death,  whose  Uves  are  lived  in  unbroken 
communion  with  nature,  whose  human  centre 
is  the  family,  and  whose  divine  objective  is  God — 
men  and  women  talked  to  me  of  Life.  Among  the 
people  of  Belfast  men  and  women  talked  to  me  of 
Wages.  Every  conversation  with  the  peasants  came 
round,  sooner  or  later,  adequately  or  inadequately, 
to  the  great  issues  of  human  existence.  Every  con- 
versation with  the  workmen  of  Belfast  came  round, 
almost  at  once,  and  with  tremendous  earnestness, 
to  the  question  of  Wages. 

This  is  the  difference  between  the  land  we  have 
left  behind  and  the  kingdom  into  which  we  have 
now  entered.  We  are  done  with  Life.  We  are  con- 
fronted by  Economics.  We  have  left  the  Ireland  for 
which  Home  Rule  is  a  part  of  life's  poetry,  a  part 
of  the  religion  of  the  national  soul,  a  part  of  the  self- 
respect  of  a  country  conscious  of  a  destiny  ;  and  we 


254        MANUFACTURED    MORTALITY 

have  come  to  the  Ireland  which  is  so  obsessed  by 
the  problems  of  social  democracy,  so  absorbed  in 
the  business  of  money-getting,  that  it  can  think  of 
nothing  but  Wages. 

"  God  made  the  country,  and  man  made  the 
town."  There  are  still  signs  of  a  divine  creation  in 
the  humanity  of  the  one,  the  marks  of  a  manu- 
facturer growing  obviously  clearer  in  the  humanity 
of  the  other. 


CHAPTER  XVn 
THE  ORANGE  CAPITAL 

BELFAST  is  like  Tottenham  Court  Road,  filled 
with  the  population  of  Oldham.  Its  principal 
streets  are  thronged  by  women  with  shawls  over 
their  heads,  by  workmen  in  grimy  clothes,  and  by 
barefoot  children.  You  never  escape  the  feeling 
of  factory,  warehouse,  and  shop.  It  is  a  place  of 
business  and  nothing  but  a  place  of  business.  It 
has  no  beautiful  corners  like  the  cities  of  Touraine, 
no  sudden  and  restful  charms  Hke  London.  One 
is  ridiculed  for  suggesting  that  it  should  have 
attractions  of  this  kind.  It  is  not  so  much  a 
place  where  people  live  as  a  place  where  people 
toil. 

It  can  justly  boast  an  immense  and  solemn  city 
hall,  a  remarkable  technical  coUege,  factories  which, 
I  suppose,  are  without  their  equal  in  the  world,  a 
few  streets  of  really  splendid  shops,  a  pleasant 
suburban  circumference,  and  fine  scenery  outside, 
easily  to  be  reached  by  excellent  electric  trams. 
But  at  the  heart,  this  packed  and  crowded  city  is 
the  most  depressing,  dismal,  and  alarming  exhibition 

266 


256  THE    ORANGE    CAPITAL 

of  what  competitive  industrialism  can  make  of 
human  existence  that  I  have  yet  explored. 

York  Street  is  typical.  It  is  composed  of  chapels, 
factories,  shops,  pawnshops,  pubUc-houses,  and  small 
hotels.  Till  eleven  o'clock  at  night  you  may  see 
ragged  and  unwashed  children  of  six  or  seven  years 
of  age  going  with  their  pennies  to  buy  supper  in 
sweetshops.  I  have  seen  swarms  of  tiny  girls,  bare- 
foot in  the  rain,  carrying  a  baby  wrapped  in  their 
shawls  at  ten  o'clock  of  a  wet  and  bitter  night.  I 
have  seen  at  least  a  dozen  tiny  children  wandering 
forlorn  and  miserable  in  this  single  street  between 
one  and  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Drunken 
men,  half -drunken  men,  and  melancholy  sober  men  ; 
little,  stunted,  white-faced  women,  and  fat,  bloated, 
coarse-featured,  and  red-faced  women,  puUing  their 
shawls  over  their  heads,  come  from  the  pubHc- 
houses  and  pass  along  the  pavement  in  a  pageant 
of  shabby  gloom.  The  faces  of  these  people  are 
terrible.  They  are  either  fierce,  hard,  cruel,  and 
embittered,  or  they  are  sad,  wretched,  hopeless,  and 
despairing.  Factory  girls,  without  hats,  pass  in 
hordes,  sometimes  singing,  sometimes  laughing  dis- 
cordantly, sometimes  larking  with  boys.  Among 
these  young  people  it  is  rare  to  see  a  big,  well-built, 
and  healthy  specimen  of  humanity.  They  are 
wonderfully  small,  pale,  and  flat-chested.  It  is  a 
population  of  bloodless  dwarfs. 

But  York  Street  is  like  heaven  to  hell  in  compari- 


A  l;i:ijast  i:u\\ 


THE    ORANGE    CAPITAL  267 

son  with  the  slums  of  West  Belfast.  In  only  one  quar- 
ter of  London  do  I  know  of  more  terrible  dog-holes. 

Some  of  the  houses  are  Hke  the  ancient  cabins 
which  once  disgraced  rural  Ireland,  and  are  now 
only  to  be  seen  occasionally.  But  here  in  these 
courts  and  alleys  of  Belfast  they  are  joined  together, 
they  are  grimy  with  the  dirt  of  a  manufacturing 
city,  and  they  smell  with  the  acrid  bitterness  of 
beggary  and  want.  I  was  so  stifled  in  some  of  these 
dens  that  I  could  scarcely  breathe.  The  damp,  the 
foul  smells,  the  ragged  beds,  the  dirty  clothes  of  the 
poor  wretches  huddled  together  in  these  dark  in- 
teriors assailed  me  with  a  sense  of  such  substantial 
loathing  that  I  felt  physically  sick.  The  faces  of 
the  children  Uterally  hurt  my  eyes. 

I  find  that  Miss  Margaret  Irwin,  secretary  to  the 
Scottish  Council  for  Women's  Trades,  experienced 
this  same  feeHng  of  repugnance  and  nausea.  She 
declares  that  the  Belfast  worker  is  worse  housed 
than  the  Scotch.  "  In  one  particular  instance,"  she 
says,  "  I  encountered  such  filthy  conditions  that  for 
the  first  time  in  many  years  of  experience  in  this 
work  I  found  myself  unable  to  enter  the  house, 
and  had  to  conduct  the  interview  from  the  door- 
way. The  house  was  quite  unfit  for  human  habita- 
tion." 

Even  where  the  houses  are  of  more  modern  design, 
the  wretchedness  of  the  interiors  cannot  be  exag- 
gerated.   I  visited  a  house  where  the  one  water- 


258  THE    ORANGE    CAPITAL 

supply  was  a  tap  in  the  wall  of  the  kitchen,  which 
was  the  only  Hving  room.  The  tap  dripped  on  the 
floor.  One  of  the  ragged  and  dishevelled  women, 
nodding  her  head  to  the  tap,  said  to  the  friend  who 
accompanied  me,  "  Yes,  that's  our  scuUery." 

In  these  streets  you  see  dirty  fowls  picking  chaff 
as  it  falls  from  the  nose-bag  of  the  carter's  horse, 
costermongers'  barrows  laden  with  bulging  sacks 
stand  against  the  kerb,  boys  kick  about  the  road 
a  sodden  and  punctured  football  or  a  wad  of  paper, 
slatternly  women,  whose  faces  look  as  if  they  have 
never  been  washed,  and  whose  hair  looks  as  if  it 
has  never  been  combed,  stand  scowHng  in  the  door- 
ways. A  reek  of  human  mildew  comes  from  the 
houses.  Melancholy  cats  crawl  in  the  gutters. 
Existence  is  felt  to  be  a  curse. 

The  only  thing  which  gave  a  sense  of  real  vigour 
to  these  dispirited  and  despairing  streets  was  a 
splendid  black  and  silver  hearse,  the  handsome  black 
horses,  with  their  silver  harness,  trotting  smartly 
and  eagerly  as  though  to  get  away  from  such  animals 
as  the  women  in  the  doors.  That  empty  hearse 
flashed  through  the  torpor  of  the  streets  with  a  sense 
of  surJight  and  joy.  It  advertised  the  superiority 
of  Death. 

I  visited  a  lodging-house  with  one  who  knows  the 
neighbourhood  well.  In  the  back  kitchen  four  or 
five  miserable  men  were  cooking  their  meal ;  the 
landlady  sat  in  the  front  kitchen,  which  was  bright 


THE    ORANGE    CAPITAL  259 

and  cheerful ;  one  of  her  children  swaggered  to  the 
door  of  the  back  kitchen,  and  surveyed  the  broken 
lodgers  in  that  gloomy  interior  with  a  look  half  of 
ownership  and  half  of  scorn,  humming  and  eating 
bread  and  jam.  We  went  upstairs.  The  bedclothes 
were  thin  and  quite  filthy  ;  I  have  never  seen  sheets 
so  iron-grey,  one  had  to  look  twice  to  reahze  that  they 
had  once  been  white.  We  inquired  the  price  of  these 
beds,  which  were  packed  pretty  close  to  one  another. 
"  Eightpence,"  said  the  landlady.  "  What  !  "  we 
cried  ;  "  eightpence  a  night  ?  How  can  these  men 
afford  to  pay  eightpence  ?  "  "Oh,  they  only 
pay  fourpence,"  she  rephed  ;  "  two  go  to  a  bed, 
fourpence  each,  making  eightpence ;  that's  the 
charge." 

In  one  house  we  came  upon  a  Httle  old  crop- 
headed  man,  like  a  plucked  sparrow,  sitting  huddled 
up  on  a  low  stool  close  to  the  kitchen  fire.  He  never 
spoke  a  word  the  whole  time  we  were  there  ;  never 
smiled,  never  showed  a  sign  of  inteUigence.  With 
wide  staring  eyes  he  looked  into  the  fire,  his  bony 
fingers  closing  and  unclosing  on  a  little  stump  of  a 
stick  held  in  his  right  hand.  He  was  the  hero  of  the 
house — an  old  age  pensioner  whose  life  was  exceed- 
ingly precious  to  his  affectionate  relations.  His 
daughter-in-law  told  us  that  her  husband  was  out 
of  work,  but  that  her  two  daughters  and  the  old 
man  by  the  fire  kept  things  going.  The  two  daugh- 
ters appeared  before  we  left.    One  was  fourteen,  and 


260  THE    ORANGE    CAPITAL 

dreadfully  anaemic  ;  she  wore  neither  boots  nor 
stockings.  She  told  us  that  she  earned  about  six 
or  seven  shiUings  a  week  as  a  spinner.  She  said 
it  was  hard  work,  and  complained  that  the  yarn 
of  late  had  been  very  bad.  She  discussed  a  recent 
strike,  wages,  and  questions  of  trade — this  child 
of  fourteen.  She  said  that  bronchitis  was  bad. 
The  factories  are  kept  heated,  the  girls  stand  bare- 
foot all  day  on  sopping  wet  tiles,  and  they  catch  cold 
going  home.  She  coughed  as  she  spoke.  She  was 
about  as  tall  as  an  ordinary  girl  of  ten  or  eleven  ;  her 
face  was  quite  yellow  ;  her  poor  Httle  thin  hair  was 
plaited  and  pinned  up  on  top  of  her  head  ;  she  had 
large,  dull,  vacant  eyes,  and  seemed  lost  in  her 
black  shawl.  I  don't  think  she  has  ever  been  really 
happy. 

Think  what  this  interior  reveals  !  An  old,  in- 
articulate man  nodding  his  head  over  the  grave, 
and  little  girls  who  should  be  playing  in  the  fields, 
support  a  family.  I  exclaimed  to  my  friend  as 
we  left  this  slum  house  :  "  I  have  children  of  that  age 
in  England.  They  have  leather  reins  and  a  whip  ; 
they  play  at  horses  and  drive  round  the  garden  ; 
they  are  big,  strong,  and  overflowing  with  the  joy 
of  life.  But  that  little  worn-out  girl  we  have  just 
left  talked  about  labour  questions,  discussed  factory 
conditions,  told  us  the  history  of  a  strike  !  " 

We  went  to  see  a  young  man  who  is  ill  with 
bronchitis.      We    entered    a    small    house,    passed 


THE    ORANGE   CAPITAL  261 

through  the  occupier's  kitchen,  and  ascended  to  the 
lodger  who  rents  the  floor  above.  He  lay  gasping 
in  bed,  yellow  and  distressed.  The  room  was  like 
a  loft.  The  atmosphere  was  suffocating.  His  young 
wife  and  three  children  crowded  the  space  unoccupied 
by  the  one  bed.  He  pays  the  woman  below  two 
shiUings  a  week  ;  the  rent  of  the  entire  house  is 
two  shillings  and  sixpence.  This  young  man  is 
handsome  in  a  rather  theatrical  fashion.  It  was  sad 
to  see  him  wasting  and  breathing  stertorously  on  the 
dingy  bed.  He  left  his  trade  to  sell  toothpaste  and 
lecture  about  teeth  at  street  corners.  He  could 
once  make  five  pounds  a  week.  "Ah,  but  I'm  stale 
now,"  he  sighed ;  "  a  man  can't  keep  up  that 
sort  of  thing  for  long.  I  wish  I  had  never  left  my 
trade." 

Let  the  reader  consider  what  these  figures  mean  : 
In  the  March  quarter  of  last  year  the  percentage  of 
infant  mortahty  in  West  Belfast  was  28-1  ;  in  the 
whole  of  the  other  urban  districts  it  was  18*8.  In 
the  June  quarter  29*7,  as  against  17"0  for  the  other 
districts.  In  the  September  quarter  38-6  against 
30-8.  In  the  December  quarter  24-1  against  18*3. 
During  last  year  1521  infants  under  one  year  of  age 
died  in  the  city  of  Belfast. 

It  was  curious  to  observe  in  nearly  aU  these  slum 
houses  occupied  by  Cathohcs  coloured  pictures  of 
Christ,  the  Pope,  and  Robert  Emmet  on  the  dingy 
waUs.    Men  in  the  lodging-houses  go  to  early  Mass. 


262  THE   ORANGE   CAPITAL 

Immorality  is  scarcely  known  among  the  Catholics. 
But  drink  is  afrightfulcauseof  misery  and  destitution, 

"  Drink,"  said  my  friend,  "  is  not  by  any  means 
the  beginning  of  wretchedness.  Mr.  Lloyd  George 
is  quite  right.  First,  sickness  ;  second,  unemploy- 
ment ;   third,  drink." 

It  must  be  said  that  here  and  there  among  these 
slums  one  found  homes  specklessly  clean,  radiant 
with  brass  candlesticks  and  china  figures,  the  inmates 
decent  and  self-respecting.  But  the  houses  are 
reaUy  abominable  ;  the  only  two  things  in  their 
favour  are  the  lowness  of  the  rents  and  the  fact  that 
some  of  them  are  condemned.  My  friend,  most 
anxious  for  me  to  think  well  of  Belfast,  said  re- 
peatedly, "  All  these  houses  are  condemned." 

Someone  else  said  to  me,  "  Yes,  but  they  have 
been  condemned  a  long  time  !  " 

So  long  as  they  stand,  so  long  as  they  are  in- 
habited, particularly  by  children,  the  City  Corpora- 
tion deserves  to  be  condemned,  and  the  landlords 
deserve  to  be  hanged.  I  have  not  told  one-half  the 
horror  of  West  Belfast.  It  covers  a  large  space  of 
the  loyal  city,  and  it  is  packed,  thick  packed,  with 
misery,  depravity,  ugHness,  and  bitter  suffering. 
And  West  Belfast  is  only  one  of  the  squahd  quarters 
of  the  city  where  the  poor  are  herded  in  a  dense  and 
swarming  mass,  with  less  room,  less  light,  and  less 
cleanliness  than  the  criminal  can  claim  in  penal 
servitude.     In  every  part  of  the  city  almost  any 


THE   ORANGE   CAPITAL  263 

side-turning  from  civic  splendour  and  private  wealth 
will  bring  you  face  to  face  with  destitution  and 
ugliness. 

And  it  is  not  only  the  slum  quarter,  by  any 
means,  which  depresses  the  visitor  to  Belfast.  The 
slum  sickens  and  disgusts,  but  the  everlasting 
streets  of  Httle  red-brick  villas,  the  respectable 
streets  of  the  well-off  working-classes,  fill  one  with 
depression.  The  monotony  is  almost  worse  than 
squalor.  The  contentment  of  the  inhabitants  is 
inexphcable.  Thousands  of  people  are  massed 
together  in  these  hideous  viUas,  which  have  been 
built,  as  it  were,  by  the  gross,  which  have  econo- 
mized everything  essential  to  a  house  and  omitted 
everything  necessary  to  a  home,  which  are  crowded 
together  in  a  dense  monotone  of  gloom,  rows  of 
cramped  dweUings  separated  by  niggard  roads, 
with  no  sign  of  a  tree  anywhere,  no  garden  of  any 
kind,  nothing  but  red  bricks,  grey  slates,  and 
smoking  chimneys. 

An  able  and  sympathetic  clergyman  of  the 
Irish  Church  told  me  that  the  courage  and  the 
virtues  of  the  people  who  pack  these  incessant 
streets  are  wonderful  and  amazing.  He  was  en- 
thusiastic about  their  moral  quaUties.  But  is  it 
possible  that  posterity,  bred  in  such  ugHness  and 
environed  by  such  unnatural  conditions,  should 
be  conscious  of  gratitude  for  existence,  should  feel, 
however  high  their  wages  may  rise    that  life  is  a 


264  THE    ORANGE    CAPITAL 

great  and  wonderful  experience  ?  The  scowl  on  the 
faces  of  the  men,  the  worn  look  on  the  faces  of  the 
women,  the  almost  total  absence  of  beauty  and  joy 
among  the  children,  force  one  to  beheve  that 
humanity  cannot  prosper  in  conditions  so  entirely 
divorced  from  the  motherhood  of  nature. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
BABIES 

WHERE  home-life  is  beautiful,  the  coming  of  a 
bab}'  is  an  event  of  unparalleled  excitement 
and  the  most  dehghtful  joy.  AJl  the  pets  which  have 
hitherto  engrossed  the  thoughts  of  the  children  lose 
the  sharpness  of  interest ;  dolls  and  toys  are  re- 
garded only  as  presents  to  be  hoarded  for  the  new- 
comer ;  picture-books  and  paint-boxes  are  employed 
merely  to  get  rid  of  the  almost  unbearable  suspense 
in  waiting  for  the  great  miracle  to  occur  ;  the 
corner  of  the  garden  for  which  they  are  responsible 
begins  to  show  a  crop  of  weeds. 

And  the  baby  of  such  a  home — I  mean  the  baby 
of  a  kind  man  and  a  good  woman — is  almost  always 
beautiful.  Indeed,  I  doubt  whether  there  is  any- 
thing in  the  world  of  so  exquisite  a  beauty,  so  adorable 
a  perfection,  so  enchanting  a  fascination.  The  large 
eyes,  which  see  nothing,  the  little  ears,  which  hear 
nothing,  the  tiny  and  most  perfect  rose-coloured 
fingers  and  toes,  the  heavenly  sweetness  of  the 
breath,  the  unearthly  softness  and  purity  of  the 

2U 


266  BABIES 

skin,  the  absolute  innocence  and  the  profound 
mystery  of  new-born  life,  the  evolution  of  the  brain- 
cells  into  a  settled  and  distinct  PersonaHty — ^are 
not  these  things  a  rapture  and  a  benediction  ? 

I  saw  one  such  baby  in  Belfast.  In  the  home  of 
well-off  people  living  in  the  suburbs  of  the  town  I 
had  the  dehghtand  amusement  of  worshipping  a  baby 
that  was  lovely  and  wonderful.  I  watched  the  older 
brother  and  sister  plajdng  with  this  infant,  saw  the 
mother  take  it  on  her  knee  and  press  its  little  face 
against  her  breast,  agreed  with  the  happy  father 
that  the  child  was  amazing  at  all  points  of  the 
compass. 

But  I  saw  in  Belfast  hundreds  of  other  babies, 
every  day  and  every  night  I  saw  hundreds  of  other 
babies  ;  and  they  were  not  beautiful,  they  were  not 
lovable — they  were  the  most  pathetic,  sorry,  and 
ugly  little  creatures  imaginable.  They  were  what 
people  call  "  brats." 

The  look  in  the  eyes  of  these  chalk-faced,  rag- 
dressed,  unwashed,  uncared-for,  slum  infants  is 
almost  the  most  awful  sight  I  have  seen.  It 
is  an  expression  of  apathy  and  acquiescence  in 
misery.  They  have  cried  in  their  pain,  they  have 
rebelled  against  starvation,  they  have  roared  and 
kicked  with  instinctive  but  unconscious  indignation 
against  their  maltreatment ;  but  the  fierce  hands  of 
the  mothers  have  shaken  and  stricken  them  into 
silence,  the  ferocious  voice  of  their  mothers  has 


BABIES  267 

shouted  down  their  cries — and  now  they  are  afraid 
to  utter  sound,  afraid  to  protest ;  they  submit,  they 
surrender,  they  acquiesce. 

Have  you  ever  heard  the  voice  of  a  slum  mother 
shouting  at  her  child  ?  Have  you  ever  seen  one  of 
these  slatternly  mothers  seize  up  her  CTjing  baby 
from  a  grocer's  filthy  box  on  the  floor,  shake  it 
with  frenzied  violence,  thump  it  brutally  on  the 
spine,  and  then  thrust  it  impatiently  back  into  the 
box-cradle  which  had  far  better  be  its  coffin  ?  And 
have  you  listened  for  a  moment  to  the  frightful 
silence  which  followed  ? 

But  have  you  not  noticed  that  the  whole  spirit 
of  a  poor  neighbourhood  is  one  of  brutahty  ?  Con- 
sider for  a  moment,  and  think  whether  you  have 
ever  heard  in  a  shabby  quarter  of  any  large  town 
in  the  world  a  single  word  addressed  to  children 
that  was  gentle  and  tender.  I  have  often  been 
struck  in  these  dreadful  quarters  by  the  angry 
fierceness  with  which  even  children  speak  to  their 
younger  brothers  and  sisters.  They  shout  at  the 
child  that  tarries  behind  ;  they  run  back  at  last, 
snatch  up  its  hand,  shake  the  arm  violently,  and 
then  drag  the  lingerer  forward  at  a  pace  which  the 
little  feet  tumble  over  each  other  to  maintain.  The 
elder  sister,  even  when  she  is  caressing  the  baby  in 
her  arms,  will  shout  angrily  into  its  ears  if  it  utter 
a  whimper  or  kick  to  be  set  down  in  the  road.  A 
party  of  boys,  pla3dng  at  a  game  in  the  street,  will 


268  BABIES 

rush  up  to  each  other  in  a  moment  of  dispute,  yell 
in  each  other's  faces,  roll  up  their  sleeves  in  threat 
of  battle,  push  forward,  stamp  their  feet  on  the 
ground,  and  to  express  the  full  righteousness  of  their 
indignation  will  contort  their  faces  into  demoniac 
hideousness  and  passion. 

The  good  father  in  these  crowded  quarters  of 
great  cities  thinks  it  right  and  natural  to  address 
his  children  harshly  and  with  threats.  He  is  ashamed 
of  tenderness.  He  has  no  faith  whatever  in  gentle- 
ness. His  method  is  the  loud  word  and  the  sharp 
blow.  Even  where  reHgion  or  humanity  saves  him 
from  actual  tyranny,  his  conversations  with  his 
children,  certainly  his  corrections  and  commands, 
are  always  in  a  brutal  key. 

Perhaps  most  of  us  who  are  shocked  by  this 
barbarous  defamation  of  parental  love  would  be  no 
different  ourselves  if  we  lived  in  a  slum.  The  cry 
of  a  baby  is  utterly  maddening  in  a  dark  hot  room 
where  the  mother  is  busy  at  sweated  labour,  and 
where  the  other  children  are  ceaselessly  asking 
questions  as  to  the  hour  of  the  next  meal.  And 
the  baby  of  such  a  mother  is  not  beautiful  and 
worshipful,  but  is  ugly  and  unlovable,  is  pale, 
pinched,  peevish,  and  nasty.  It  is  difficult,  I 
think,  for  the  most  loving-hearted  person  to  feel 
anything  but  pity  for  these  unnatural  infants. 
They  are  so  ugly  and  unreal.  They  are  so  nearly 
abortions. 


BABIES  269 

Let  us  remember,  too,  the  utter  ignorance  of  the 
parents.  Civihzation  has  bred  a  race  of  mothers 
who  know  nothing  of  maternity.  A  doctor  in  Belfast 
told  me  that  he  very  often  finds  a  mother  feeding 
her  infant  on  tinned  meat,  bread,  and  tea.  He  says 
to  one  mother,  "  You  must  give  the  child  milk,  or  it 
will  die."  And  the  mother  answers,  "  Only  milk, 
doctor  ? — is  it  to  have  no  food,  then,  at  aU  ?  "  And 
he  asks  another  mother,  who  complains  that  her 
child  wiU  eat  nothing,  "  Have  you  tried  milk  ?  " 
The  mother  declares  that  the  child  will  not  touch  it. 
"  Let  me  see,"  he  says  ;  and  they  have  to  send  out 
for  milk,  "  a  hap'orth  of  milk  " — for  there  is  not 
a  drop  in  the  house.  "  I  assure  you,"  he  told  me, 
"that  I  have  difficulty  in  preventing  the  poor  mites 
from  eating  the  teaspoon,  so  greedy  are  they  for 
the  milk  directly  they  taste  it." 

Let  a  man  reflect  on  this  state  of  things,  and  he 
wiU  surely  agree  that  civilization  has  got  danger- 
ously astray  from  nature's  road.  For  myself,  I 
can  say  that  the  mere  spectacle  of  babies  in  the 
streets  of  Belfast  had  more  meaning  and  more 
warning  for  my  mind  than  aU  the  disputation  and 
controversy  that  I  held  with  poHticians  and  reformers. 
I  would  take  supper  with  a  clergyman  and  discuss 
the  religious  difficulty,  sit  smoking  with  a  Sociahst 
and  discuss  the  political  difficulty,  or  dine  with  a 
doctor  and  discuss  questions  of  science  ;  and  then, 
sauntering   back   to   my   hotel   through   the   back 


270  BABIES 

streets  of  the  town,  I  seemed  to  feel  that  every- 
thing said  to  me  an  hour  before  was  vain  and 
meaningless,  that  its  interest  for  me  had  been 
delusion,  that  here  in  these  dismal  streets,  wrapped 
in  the  dirty  shawls  of  their  mothers  or  carried 
in  the  arms  of  little  sisters,  here  in  these  grey- 
faced,  dull-eyed,  Ustless  and  bloodless  babies,  was 
the  Fact,  the  ReaHty,  the  Absolute  Truth  of  Indus- 
triahsm. 

What  a  scene  it  would  be — strive  to  imagine  it — 
if  one  day  when  the  House  of  Commons  was  solemnly 
engaged  in  debating  whether,  in  a  dawdhng  clause  of 
some  fatuous  bill,  the  word  "  may "  should  be 
altered  to  the  more  drastic  "  shall,"  or  when  a 
briUiant  and  pungent  master  of  irony  was  de- 
lighting the  House  by  recaUing  the  former  utter- 
ances of  a  Cabinet  Minister  on  the  question  of 
closure  by  compartments — what  a  scene,  I  say,  if 
the  doors  were  to  open  slowly,  quietly,  and  a  swarm 
of  haggard  children  from  the  slums  of  industrial 
cities,  carrjdng  anaemic  and  wasting  posterity  in 
their  scraggy  arms,  advanced  a  httle  way  up  the 
floor  of  the  House,  and  stood  waiting  there,  waiting 
for  life  in  a  silence  of  death. 

Honourable  and  right  honourable  gentlemen, 
gallant  and  learned  members,  noble  lords  and 
grinning  coxcombs,  practised  Hars  and  specious 
humbugs,  honest  men  and  faithful  Christians — ^what 
would  they  say  to  this  interruption  by  Reality,  how 


BABIES  271 

would  they  deal  with  this  invasion  of  their  dialectical 
territory  by  living  Fact  ? 

If  the  children  of  the  slums,  now  cheated  of  joy, 
beauty,  and  natural  health,  were  to  raise  their  voices 
in  one  agonized  scream  of  rebellion,  one  bitter  cry 
of  revolt  against  the  laws  of  God  and  man,  we  should 
spring  to  our  feet  and  plunge  into  the  blackness  and 
morass  of  our  social  misery  to  rescue  and  to  save. 
But  I  think  the  silence,  and  the  lethargy,  and  the 
acquiescence  of  these  little  children  is,  of  all  facts 
and  reahties,  the  most  awful.  It  seemed  to  me  in 
Belfast  that  I  could  have  better  borne  the  gaze 
of  those  atrophying  babies  of  the  slums  if  they  had 
accused  me,  if  they  had  pleaded  to  me,  if  they  had 
mocked  me.  But  the  glazed,  duU,  Ufeless,  and  in- 
different look  in  their  eyes  fiUed  me  with  desolating 
horror.  I  felt,  first  of  all,  that  I  could  understand 
the  woman  who  murders  her  child — for  these  babies 
are  unlovely,  one  may  even  say,  God  help  us,  that 
they  are  revolting.  Then  I  felt  that  nature  did  well 
to  mow  down  these  sickly  and  artificial  deformities  of 
human  kind  with  her  wide-sweeping,  merciless,  and 
never  idle  scythe  of  destruction.  Then  I  felt  that 
we  do  wrong  to  send  doctors,  and  nurses,  and  sani- 
tary inspectors  into  the  slums  of  great  cities  to 
preserve  a  generation  that  can  only  be  miserable 
in  itself  and  that  must  inevitably  be  the  cause  of 
even  greater  misery  in  the  generation  to  follow. 
And,  finally,  I  felt  afraid. 


272  BABIES 

When  you  think  how  beautiful  a  thing  is  a  natural 
baby,  how  its  health  and  its  joy  create  an  atmo- 
sphere of  dehght  about  it  infecting  the  most  solemn 
or  the  most  careworn,  and  how  it  rules  Hke  an  abso- 
lute monarch  a  home  consecrated  by  love,  when  you 
keep  this  thought  in  your  mind,  it  is  with  a  sudden 
clutch  of  fear  that  you  see  the  frightful  peril  of 
industrialism  beholding  these  hordes  of  poor,  ugly, 
misshapen,  and  actually  repugnant  infants.  We 
have  made  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  nature  the 
most  hideous,  the  most  lovable  work  of  creation, 
the  most  repellent. 

Civihzation  is  breeding  these  deformities  of 
humanity  by  hundreds  of  thousands.  Not  all  the 
inspection  of  the  State,  not  all  the  reforms  in 
education,  not  all  the  self-sacrifice  and  devotion  of 
rehgious  philanthropy  can  make  them  whole.  Till 
they  drop  into  their  graves  they  must  crawl  in  the 
unlifting  shadow  of  a  curse  which  can  never  be 
annulled  by  Act  of  ParHament — ^Nature's  curse  on 
defiance  of  her  laws.  They  are  things  that  have 
never  been  mothered. 

When  next  you  smile  into  the  cradle  of  a  happy, 
natural  baby,  or  lift  the  cover  on  that  wonderful 
basket  where  powder-box,  hair-brush,  safety-pins, 
needle  and  cotton,  blunt-pointed  scissors  and  white 
linen  are  set  in  the  neatness  of  good  order,  or 
examine  the  soft  and  beautiful  garments  which  a 
mother's  fingers  loved  to  make  before  the  hour  of 


BABIES  273 

her  travail  had  arrived,  remind  yourself,  and  see 
the  awful  significance  of  it,  that  this  is  one  of  the 
commonest  requests  made  by  tiny  children  over  the 
counter  of  pawnshops  in  our  crowded  cities  ; 
"A  penn'orth  of  rags  for  baby." 


CHAPTER   XIX 
MAIDS   OF   THE   MILL 

AS  you  pass  through  the  back  streets  of  Belfast, 
which  have  an  extraordinary  monotony,  an 
extraordinary  ugliness — as  if  a  city  without  trees 
and  without  green  spaces  and  without  gardens  has 
some  particular  power  to  oppress  the  poorer  quarters 
with  an  added  force  of  unnatural  melancholy — ^you 
may  see  little  children,  grubby  of  face  and  ragged 
in  garments,  sitting  on  the  doorsteps  with  their 
backs  to  the  home,  their  faces  to  the  street,  playing 
at  a  self -in  vented  game. 

It  is  dehghtful  to  watch  the  sparkle  in  their  eyes, 
to  follow  the  sudden  movements  of  their  Httle  hands, 
to  hear  the  laughter  and  discussion  of  their  baby 
lips.  Behind  them  you  may  see  the  shadowy  figure 
of  a  woman  working  at  embroidery  or  attending  to 
a  fire  ;  in  the  broken  road  of  the  street  boys  kick 
without  much  energy  a  sodden  football ;  at  the 
corners  there  are  little  groups  of  unemployed  casuals; 
the  grimy  slates,  the  dull  windows,  the  broken  shut- 
ters, and  the  lifeless  red  bricks  of  the  continuous 

274 


MAIDS    OF    THE    MILL  276 

houses  seem  to  be  dark  with  ruin,  pauperism,  and 
brooding  death. 

The  httle  girls  on  the  doorstep  are  happy.  Their 
happiness  continues  tiU  they  go  to  school,  and  until 
they  are  old  enough  to  become  half-timers.  Then 
for  the  rest  of  the  thirty-eight  jeaTs  which  make 
the  average  life-time  of  a  woman  mill- worker  exist- 
ence for  them  is  a  progress  of  suffering.  It  strikes 
like  a  blow  at  the  heart,  observing  these  infants  of 
the  slums,  to  reflect  that  their  trivial  happiness, 
their  innocent  and  baby  happiness,  is  passing  away 
from  them,  swiftly,  even  while  they  play  ;  that  it 
is  the  only  happiness  they  wiU  ever  know. 

To  send  a  little  schoolgirl  into  a  linen  mill  is  really 
inhuman.  The  only  excuse  for  this  barbarity  is  the 
matter  of  wages.  They  can  earn — these  poor  babies 
— half  a  crown  or  two-and-ninepence  a  week.  People 
say  to  you,  "  They  help  to  support  the  family  "  ; 
or,  "  It  is  better  for  them  to  be  employed  than  idle 
in  the  streets."  But  they  go  from  these  unhealthy 
slums,  and  from  a  most  imperfect  educational 
system,  and  at  just  the  very  period  when  they 
should  be  hving  in  the  open  air  and  getting  the 
very  best  of  nourishment,  into  an  atmosphere  that 
destroys  the  vigour  of  adults,  and  to  work  which 
tears  the  nervous  system  into  shreds.  Like  a  shuttle 
these  little,  sleepy,  iU-nourished  innocents  are 
driven  backwards  and  forwards  from  school  to 
factory,  from  factory  to  home,  and  from  home  to 


276  MAIDS    OF    THE    MILL 

school.  Their  brains  are  confused,  their  limbs  ache, 
the  blood  runs  sluggishly  in  their  veins.  They  con- 
tract whooping-cough,  bronchial  pneumonia,  and 
consumption.  They  die  in  what  should  be  their 
prime,  worn  out,  rattled,  and  husky — dry  as  the 
dust  on  the  road,  empty  as  an  old  shuck. 

At  half-past  five  every  morning  the  smoky  air 
above  the  roofs  of  Belfast  vibrates  with  the  scream 
of  sirens.  Thousands  of  little  girls,  roused  by  these 
continuous  and  piercing  yells,  spring  frightened  out 
of  slum  beds  and  drag  on  dirty  garments.  At  ten 
minutes  to  six,  as  if  each  siren  were  striving  to  out- 
scream  the  others,  there  begins  a  pandemonium  of 
this  furious  screeching,  which  lasts  unbroken  for 
ten  minutes.  While  it  is  proceeding  the  back  streets 
are  fiUed  with  women  and  girls  hurrying  to  the 
numerous  factories.  They  have  eaten  nothing. 
With  shawls  pulled  over  their  heads,  they  pace 
through  the  streets  in  a  great  army,  shivering  with 
cold  and  dull  with  bodily  want.  Some  of  them 
chew  starch  or  ginger,  or  cloves  and  even  camphor ; 
some  of  the  mothers  have  dosed  their  babies  with 
a  drop  or  two  of  laudanum  before  leaving  home. 

They  enter  the  great  factories  and  pass  to  the 
various  departments.  Some  of  the  women  and  girls 
go  to  dry  spinning,  and  some  to  wet  spinning. 
In  the  wet  spinning-rooms  the  heat  is  so  great  that 
a  person  unused  to  it  would  faint  in  five  minutes. 
The  atmosphere  is  thick  with  steam.    The  floors  are 


MAIDS    OF   THE   MILL  277 

kept  sloppy  with  water.  The  girls  fling  off  their 
shawls,  and,  wearing  nothing  but  a  thin  skirt  and  a 
shift  which  leaves  the  neck  and  chest  exposed,  begin 
their  work  at  the  machines.  In  the  dry  spinning- 
rooms  the  air  is  dusty  with  a  choking  fluff  called 
pouce,  which  gets  into  the  throat  and  clings  to  the 
air  channels.  When  a  girl  begins  to  break  down  in 
her  lungs,  the  others  say,  hearing  her  cough,  "  She's 
pouced."  It  is  possibly  the  beginning  of  consump- 
tion. Some  of  the  factories  have  been  improved  by 
recent  legislation,  but  no  contrivance  can  altogether 
remove  the  dangers  of  unnatural  heat  and  flying 
fluff. 

When  the  girls  go  to  breakfast,  they  proceed, 
most  of  them  barefoot,  from  these  frightful  rooms 
straight  to  the  cold  and  wet  of  the  streets.  The 
shock  to  the  system  is  terrible,  and  it  is  amazing 
that  they  live  so  long.  When  our  children  have  been 
in  warm  rooms  we  wrap  them  up  before  they  go 
into  a  colder  atmosphere.  These  girls  pass  barefoot 
and  thinly  clad  from  the  tropical  heat  of  the  spin- 
ning-room to  the  weather  of  the  outer  world.  It  is 
as  if  a  man  went  from  a  Turkish  bath,  barefoot  and 
thinly  clad,  to  the  muddy  pavements  and  wintry 
wind  of  London  streets.  And  when  they  get  home 
their  breakfast  is  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  piece  of  bread. 

So  the  day  passes,  with  an  interval  for  dinner,  till 
nightfall  is  at  hand  ;  and  then  fagged,  gloomy,  and 
coughing,  the  army  of  womanhood  shuffles  back 


278  MAIDS    OF    THE    MILL 

into  the  slums  for  more  tea  and  more  bread.  At  the 
end  of  the  week  the  little  maids  have  earned  six  or 
seven  shillings. 

Thousands  of  these  girls  support  their  famihes. 
The  father  is  very  often  a  casual  labourer,  and  has 
become,  by  unemployment  and  self-contempt,  a 
loafing  drunkard,  a  sponge  upon  his  wdf  e  and  children. 
Three  little  daughters  in  the  mill  can  earn  enough 
to  pay  the  rent  of  his  slum  home,  to  provide  the 
family  with  bread  and  tea,  and  to  keep  him  in  stout 
and  tobacco.  Why  should  he  stand  in  a  shivering 
wedge  of  broken  humanity  at  the  docks,  waiting  for 
hard  work  to  be  thrown  at  him  for  a  mean  wage  ? 
Has  he  not  brought  children  into  the  world  ?  Has 
he  not  bestowed  the  immense  boon  of  human  exist- 
ence on  these  little  ones  ?  Surely,  he  may  live  upon 
them. 

A  few  of  these  girls  with  spirit  in  their  blood, 
puU  their  shawls  over  their  heads  at  night  and  go 
walking  in  gangs  before  the  barrack  gates,  ready  for 
any  adventure  that  may  befall  them.  The  com- 
petition of  little  short-skirted  shop  girls,  with  rakish 
hats,  is  generally  too  much  for  them,  and  they  watch 
with  real  envy  and  with  genuine  pain  the  gorgeous 
red  coat  of  the  British  soldier  moving  away  beside 
these  fashionable  rivals.  Then,  as  the  hours  wear 
away,  they  begin  to  mock  and  laugh,  to  join  arms 
and  move  singing  through  the  streets,  till  perhaps 
they  join  forces  with  a  gang  of  factory  boys  and 


MAIDS    OF    THE   MILL  279 

finish  the  night  in  some  trifling  horseplay.  These 
children  are  always  to  the  front  in  a  street  riot,  they 
are  often  the  cause  of  a  fight  between  Catholics  and 
Protestants,  they  have  battle-cries  which  rouse  a 
neighbourhood. 

But  most  of  the  girls  bide  in  their  homes,  except  on 
summer  nights,  while  many  of  them  actually  work 
for  another  firm  in  the  little  family  kitchen  which 
is  their  home,  until  it  is  time  for  bed.  The  great 
concern  of  Belfast  is  Wages. 

You  will  see  stout  matrons  of  forty  and  fifty  in 
the  linen  miUs,  but  the  average  life  of  the  stunted, 
anaemic,  skinny  little  creatures  who  compose  the 
immense  army  of  mill  workers  is  thirty-eight  years 
of  age.  They  become  sallow  and  dull.  Their  teeth 
decay  and  fall  out,  their  lungs  break  down,  and  they 
wind  up  their  experience  of  terrestrial  life  with  a 
dignified  funeral. 

A  gentleman  in  Ireland  devoted  to  the  develop- 
ment of  Irish  industries  was  one  day  asking  for 
support  from  a  rich  man  in  Belfast.  At  the  end  of 
their  conversation  the  Ulsterman  said,  "  Well,  I 
wish  you  luck.  Go  on  developing  Irish  industries 
as  hard  as  you  hke,  but,  for  God's  sake,  don't  set 
up  another  Belfast.  If  you  knew  what  goes  on 
behind  the  scenes  you'd  lose  a  good  deal  of  your 
enthusiasm  for  industriahsm."  It  is  said  that  the 
business  prosperity  of  Belfast — one  single  firm  made 
a  profit  of  £80,000  last  year — is  built  upon  credit. 


280  MAIDS    OF    THE    MILL 

A  serious  rise  in  the  bank  rate,  it  is  said,  would  bring 
the  commercial  glory  of  Belfast  tumbling  to  the  dust 
of  bankruptcy.  In  some  cases  at  least  this  adver- 
tised prosperity  is  certainly  built  upon  the  slavery 
of  women  and  girls.  No  man  can  say  that  the  life 
of  these  girls  is  good.  No  man  can  pretend  that  it 
is  desirable.  No  doctor  could  do  anything  but  de- 
nounce it.  At  fourteen  years  of  age  they  may  earn 
seven  shillings  a  week,  and  in  their  decrepitude  at 
thirty-eight  they  may  earn  ten  or  twelve  shillings  a 
week  ;  but  even  if  the  seven  shillings  had  grown  to 
a  hundred,  who  can  say  that  to  die  broken  and 
tired  at  eight-and-thirty,  with  no  experience  of  joy, 
with  no  enthusiasm  for  beauty,  with  not  the  faintest 
knowledge  of  the  boundless  universe  that  enfolds 
the  mystery  of  human  Hfe,  is  a  reasonable  existence, 
is  a  just  destiny  ?  From  such  loins  what  posterity 
can  spring  ? 

And  if  life  in  the  mill  is  dreadful  and  wicked,  it  is 
scarcely  less  inhuman  in  the  home  of  the  out- worker, 
even  the  country  out- worker.  "A  gentleman," 
says  Miss  Margaret  Irwin,  "  who  has  given  special 
attention  to  this  question,  speaking  of  the  evil 
conditions  of  the  work,  and  the  serious  results  it 
was  having  on  the  health  of  the  girls,  said,  '  The  girls 
carry  in  heavy  burdens  of  shirts,  say  on  the  market 
day,  which  is  Tuesday.  They  may  get  a  lift  on  the 
road  ;  if  they  do  not  it  means  a  three  miles'  walk 
for  them  each  way,  which  they  have  to  undertake 


MAIDS    OF    THE    MILL  281 

over- weigh  ted  and  underfed.  Consequently  they 
arrive  home  at  night  in  a  perfectly  exhausted  con- 
dition, and  without  any  wholesome  appetite.  Their 
day  is  something  Hke  this.  They  get  up  badly 
rested  and  unrefreshed  after  a  night  spent  in  an 
insanitary,  ill- ventilated  house,  and  make  a  "  boil 
of  tea,"  say,  at  six  o'clock,  for  breakfast.  Then  they 
do  a  Httle  housework.  A  second  breakfast,  also  of 
tea,  may  follow  an  hour  later.  Sewing  may  begin 
at  ten,  and  six  or  seven  of  them  may  club  together 
in  one  house  to  do  this,  as,  of  course,  they  get  through 
more  work  that  way.  If  there  is  a  man  in  the  house, 
something  in  the  way  of  dinner  may  be  made  be- 
tween twelve  and  one  ;  if  not,  it  is  tea  and  bread 
again.  Tea  again  at  five,  and  once  more  tea  at  nine. 
They  work  on  this  food  sometimes  up  to  eleven  or 
twelve  at  night  when  they  have  a  big  order  on  ;  go 
to  bed  after  midnight,  it  may  be  ;  rise  unrefreshed 
in  the  morning,  and  begin  again  da  capo.'  " 

Miss  Irwin  herself  gives  a  striking  account  of  a 
visit  she  paid  to  a  young  woman,  "  probably  the 
most  highly  skilled  worker  I  met  with  in  my 
inquiry  " : — 

"  When  visited  she  was  embroidering  a  silk  para- 
sol with  coloured  silks.  The  work  was  exquisite, 
and  demanded  a  high  degree  of  skiU.  She  was  to 
receive  2s.  for  the  parasol,  and  it  would  take  her 
three  days'  steady  work.    She  showed  me  a  blouse 


282  MAIDS    OF   THE   MILL 

piece,  finely  embroidered,  which  would  take  two 
days'  steady  work,  from  eight  in  the  morning 
till  ten  at  night — for  this  she  was  paid  2s.  For 
an  embroidered  robe  piece,  which  took  over  three 
days,  she  got  3s.  She  had  done  one  of  these 
previously,  which  took  more  than  a  week  of  steady 
labour  with  late  hours  every  night,  and  the  price 
paid  her  was  8s.  A  sister  gave  corroborative 
evidence.  They  occupied  a  very  clean  and  well- 
kept  house.  The  witness  was  an  anaemic,  dehcate- 
looking  girl,  about  twenty-two  years  of  age,  in- 
telligent, and  with  gentle  and  refined  manners. 
Her  mother,  engaged  at  the  wash-tub  in  the 
kitchen,  kept  up  a  running  commentary  during 
the  whole  of  my  visit.  '  Sure,  tell  the  lady  now  ; 
it's  time  that  someone  heard  about  it.  It's  a 
black  shame  and  a  disgrace,  and  it's  blood- 
money  they  are  paying  you.'  As  I  was  going 
out  the  mother  came  forward,  seized  my  hand, 
and  said,  '  Ye  will  tell  about  it  now  ?  Promise 
me  ye  will  ?  My  little  girl  sews  and  sews  until 
she  has  nearly  killed  herself.' " 

Whether  it  be  in  the  mill  or  in  the  home,  the 
Ufe  of  these  girls  is  destitute  of  joy.  Some  of  them 
possess  the  consolations  of  religion,  and  the  week  of 
toil  is  endured  without  complaint,  cheered  by  the 
anticipation  of  a  service  on  Sunday  in  church  or 
chapel.    The  Httle  drama  of  the  street — its  births, 


MAIDS    OF   THE   MILL  283 

deaths  and  marriages,  its  drunkenness  and  quarrels, 
its  departures  and  arrivals — these  things  supply  the 
narrative  of  their  gossip.  For  the  rest,  Hfe  is  bread 
and  tea,  sewing  and  toiUng,  from  morning  to  night — 
a  life  without  one  glorious  impulse,  without  one 
spring  of  gratitude.  And  Ufe,  says  George  Sand,  to 
be  fruitful  must  be  felt  as  a  blessing  ! 

What  strikes  me  as  the  most  terrible  fact  about 
Belfast  is  this — it  is  a  city  without  childhood. 
The  scowl  which  settles  darkly  on  the  face  of 
adults  is  present  as  a  cloud  upon  the  brow  of 
children.  The  radiant  face  of  infancy  may  be  seen 
here  and  there,  but  the  joyous  shining  eyes  of  child- 
hood never  greet  one  in  the  crowded  streets.  Ex- 
cept for  lads  kicking  a  football  or  a  wad  of  paper 
about  the  roads,  except  for  foul-mouthed,  barefoot 
newspaper  boys  smoking  cigarettes  and  tossing  for 
halfpennies  in  the  gutters  of  Royal  Avenue,  and 
except  for  little  stunted  factory  girls  larking  in  the 
streets  at  night,  I  have  not  seen  a  single  child  play- 
ing in  Belfast. 

When  the  mother  and  the  elder  sisters  are  em- 
ployed in  factories,  you  cannot  have  home-Hfe,  you 
cannot  have  childhood.  The  httle  children  shift 
for  themselves.  Fed  upon  bread  and  tea,  turned 
into  the  factories  while  they  are  still  at  school, 
settled  as  regular  mill  hands  at  the  age  of  fourteen, 
these  girls  become  neurasthenic,  anaemic,  and  con- 
sumptive before  they  are  out  of  their  teens.     The 


284  MAIDS    OF  THE   MILL 

noise  of  the  factories,  the  incessant  clangour  of 
the  machines,  the  stretched  attention  of  their  im- 
mature brains,  and  the  unwholesome  atmosphere 
of  the  rooms  where  they  work,  crush  and  exter- 
minate their  childhood. 

I  would  rather  see  my  own  children  dead  than 
working  in  the  very  best  of  the  Belfast  linen  mills. 


CHAPTER  XX 
WEALTH 

TWO  principal  delusions  exist  about  this  great 
and  loyal  city  of  Belfast.  One  that  it  is 
religious,  the  other  that  it  is  rich.  I  do  not  think 
I  exaggerate  when  I  say  that  a  man  would  have  to 
travel  far  before  he  found  a  city  where  the  founda- 
tional principles  of  the  Christian  religion  are  more 
perfectly  ignored,  and  where  the  labour  of  the 
poorest  people  is  more  inadequately  rewarded. 

In  this  chapter  I  confine  myself  to  the  question  of 
wealth.  There  are  men  in  Belfast  who  are  very  rich  ; 
there  are  skilled  workmen  in  the  shipyards  and 
factories  who  earn  high  wages ;  but  the  vast 
multitude  of  the  city  is  horribly,  wickedly,  and 
disastrously  poor.  Because  Belfast  is  doing  what 
men  call  *'  a  roaring  trade,"  it  is  supposed  that  the 
entire  population  is  prosperous  and  contented  ;  be- 
cause a  fewisolated  cases  of  high  wages  are  trumpeted 
here  and  there,  it  is  supposed  that  only  a  few  are 
poor,  only  a  remnant  is  sweated.  But  multitudes 
of  men  and  women  in  Belfast  are  dreadfully  poor, 
and  numbers  of  women  and  girls  are  outrageously 

285 


286  WEALTH 

sweated.  Before  this  chapter  is  concluded  I  think 
the  reader  will  perceive  clearly  one  of  the  strange 
truths  of  civilization,  to  wit,  that  the  prosperity  of 
a  town  may  co-exist  with  the  misery  of  its  inhabit- 
ants. 

Among  the  great  host  of  ordinary  workers  in  the 
linen  mills  wages  may  be  said  to  range  from  12s.  to 
16s.  a  week  for  men,  10s.  a  week  for  women.  This 
is  a  fair  average.  Some  men  are  employed  on  night 
work  in  these  Hnen  mills,  married  men,  and  they 
earn  13s.  4d.  a  week.  Home-Hfe,  of  course,  is 
rendered  difficult  in  such  cases  ;  family  Hfe  is  dis- 
organized ;  and  the  price  is  13s.  4d.  Among  the 
young  people  in  the  mills,  boys  earn  from  9s.  to  10s., 
and  girls  from  6s.  to  7s.  When  there  is  an  agitation 
for  higher,  for  juster  wages,  the  almost  invariable 
remedy  is  a  threat  to  put  the  workers  on  half-time. 
Nothing  so  frightens  these  poor  people  as  the  pro- 
spect of  half  wages — 6s.  or  8s.  for  men,  5s.  for 
women,  3s.  or  3s.  6d.  for  girls.  School  children 
employed  as  half-timers  in  these  flourishing  mills 
earn  2s.  9d.  or  3s.  a  week. 

Now,  it  is  not  possible  for  a  man  earning  12s.  to 
16s.  a  week  in  Belfast  to  support  a  family  in  decency 
and  make  provision  for  times  of  unemployment. 
Therefore  in  most  cases  the  children  are  pushed  early 
into  these  unhealthy  mills,  with  their  heated  air  and 
damp  floors,  and  even  the  wife  contributes  to  the 
family  income  by  working  at  home.    Life  is  not  very 


WEALTH  287 

agreeable  in  these  working-class  quarters.  After  a 
long  and  wearisome  day's  work  the  man  is  incHned 
to  take  his  ease  in  one  pubHc-house,  and  the  wife  in 
another.  Drink  is  expensive.  And  therefore  even 
in  cases  where  man,  wife,  and  three  or  four  children 
are  all  earning  money  it  is  possible  to  find  degrading 
poverty. 

But  what  of  the  home-workers  ? 

There  is  an  inquiry  now  proceeding  in  Belfast  on 
this  subject,  an  inquiry  which  is  secret.  But  in 
spite  of  that  secrecy  I  hope  a  report  may  be  issued, 
with  al]  the  evidence  presented  before  the  committee. 
It  should  astound  the  conscience  of  mankind.  This 
sweating  of  the  home-worker  in  BeKast  is  so  scandal- 
ous that  it  staggers  the  mind  to  imagine  how  civilized 
men  can  reap  the  profits  of  it,  and  when  one  knows 
that  many  of  these  men  are  enormously  rich  and 
ostentatiously  rehgious,  it  stirs  an  angry  indigna- 
tion in  the  soul.  I  give  a  few  typical  cases,  which 
have  been  most  carefully  investigated  by  an  expert 
in  this  particular  dodge  of  the  capitaUst  to  grind  the 
faces  of  the  poor — an  expert  in  the  tragedy  of  the 
home-worker. 

One  firm  gives  out  to  its  home-workers  hnen  table- 
cloths stamped  with  a  blue  design  for  these  wretched 
women  to  embroider.  The  cloth  is  about  forty-five 
inches  square  ;  the  design  is  floral  and  compHcated, 
the  embroidery  has  to  be  heavy  and  fine.  To  em- 
broider one  cloth  it  takes  three  days,  working  eight 


288  WEALTH 

hours  a  day.  The  remuneration  is  8s.  for  a  dozen 
cloths  ;  in  other  words,  8d.  a  cloth — ^less  than  3d.  a 
day.  Divide  3d.  by  eight  and  you  get  the  rate  of 
pay  per  hour. 

Another  firm  gives  out  an  immense  amoimt  of 
work  called  "  top-sewing  " — ^that  is,  tucking  in  the 
tiny  ragged  corners  of  fine  cambric  handkerchiefs  and 
stitching  them  neatly  down.  It  is  work  that  puts 
enormous  strain  upon  the  eyes  and  demands  the 
very  nicest  care  with  the  needle.  The  cleverest 
worker  can  top-sew  two  dozen  handkerchiefs  in  an 
hour.  And  the  wage  is  Jd.  a  dozen  !  In  one  hour 
the  woman  earns  a  penny.  A  day's  incessant  work 
of  eight  hours  brings  eight  coppers  into  her  purse. 
But  she  must  go  to  and  from  the  warehouse,  wait 
her  turn  with  a  crowd  of  other  miserables,  and 
buy  her  own  needles  and  threads.  I  saw  the  wage- 
book  of  a  poor  young  widow  who  does  this  work, 
with  the  help  of  her  three  Httle  boys,  who  separate 
the  handkerchiefs  and  thread  the  fine  needles. 
These  were  the  weekly  earnings,  varying  with  the 
amount  of  work  she  could  obtain  :  3s.  2d.,  6s.  lid., 
6s.  OJd.,  4s.  5Jd.  The  wage-book  of  another  cambric 
worker  showed  that  between  the  4th  and  16th  of 
March  she  had  earned  lis.  2d.  These  books  would 
not  look  well  either  in  an  employer's  Ubrary  or  on 
the  table  of  a  director's  board-room.  They  are 
documents  that  are  fitted  for  the  Congo. 

To  sew  lace  upon  handkerchiefs  demands  ex- 


A  BELFAST   INTERIOR. 


WEALTH  289 

ceeding  skill ;  the  lace  is  often  valuable  and  no  risk 
of  spoiling  it  must  be  incurred.  A  firm  would  not 
give  such  work  to  blunderers  or  disreputables.  Their 
workers  must  be  skilled,  honest,  and  clean.  The 
pay  is  9d.  a  dozen  handkerchiefs.  It  takes  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  to  finish  a  single  handkerchief. 
The  rate  of  wages  works  out  at  a  penny  an  hour. 
There  is  a  case  in  Belfast  of  a  widow  supporting 
three  young  children  and  an  invalid  sister  by  this 
difficult  work  which  gives  her  a  penny  an  hour. 

An  army  of  women  go  to  the  warehouses  for 
bundles  of  print  skirts.  They  take  these  bundles  into 
their  shabby  homes  and  stitch  them  with  a  machine, 
bujdng  their  own  thread.  They  are  paid  Is.  6d.  a 
dozen  skirts.  It  occupies  two  days  to  stitch  a  dozen. 
The  rate  of  pay  is  9d.  a  day.  They  carry  the  skirts 
back,  and  are  responsible  for  the  running  of  their 
machines.  One  woman,  with  six  children,  whose 
case  has  been  carefully  investigated,  supports  her- 
self in  this  manner. 

Here  are  a  few  instances,  briefly  given,  of  other 
wages  in  this  great  sweating  industry  of  Belfast : — 

Ladies'  blouses.  Is.  4d.  a  dozen  ;  one  hour  to  a 
blouse ;  cost  of  thread  IJd.  a  dozen  blouses. 
Chemises,  9d.  a  dozen  ;  ten  hours  for  one  dozen ; 
cost  of  thread  Ifd.  a  dozen  garments.  Men's  heavy 
cotton  shirts,  double  sewing,  Is.  4d.  per  dozen,  less 
2Jd.  for  thread  ;  thirteen  hours  for  one  dozen ; 
rate  of  pay  Id.  an  hour. 


290  WEALTH 

Thread-clipping  parasol  covers,  removing  stitches 
from  machine  embroidery  and  the  paper  used  for 
stiffening  the  back  of  patterns,  3d.  a  dozen  ;  nine 
hours  for  one  dozen  ;  rate  of  pay  Jd.  an  hour. 

These  appaUing  figures  may  be  in  the  nature  of 
"  revelations  "  to  English  people,  but  apparently 
it  is  general  knowledge  in  Belfast  that  the  founda- 
tion of  the  city's  prosperity  is  oppression  of  this 
kind.  In  a  Belfast  newspaper  I  have  just  read  the 
evidence  of  a  district  nurse  to  the  effect  that  ill- 
health  is  due,  among  other  causes,  to  the  *'  low 
wages  paid  to  the  labouring  classes."  She  added 
that  the  quality  of  milk  sold  in  the  slums  was  not 
worth  the  money  expended  upon  it.  "  In  slum  areas 
it  was  very  poor,  and  it  was  anything  but  clean." 
In  another  Belfast  newspaper  I  read  that  the  rector 
of  St.  Aidan's  Church  declares  that  part  of  his  parish 
is  "  plunged  in  dense  and  hopeless  poverty  that 
could  not  be  equalled  within  the  boundaries  of 
Belfast."  Think  of  those  words — dense  and  hope- 
less poverty  ! 

At  the  present  moment  Belfast  is  suffering  from 
an  abnormally  high  death-rate.  The  medical  ofl&cer 
declares  that  this  excessive  mortality  is  almost 
entirely  due  to  pneumonia  and  chest  affections. 
Whooping-cough  is  visiting  the  city.  "  During  the 
week  15  deaths  were  caused  by  this  disease,  73  by 
pneumonia,  and  67  by  disease  of  the  respiratory 
organs   .    .    .   during  the  past  week   146  children 


WEALTH  291 

under  the  age  of  five  years  had  died,  which  was 
equal  to  a  rate  of  19*4  per  1000  of  the  whole 
population." 

Fully  to  realize  the  condition  of  BeMast  it  is 
necessary  to  visit  the  slum  quarters,  to  enter  the 
kennels  of  the  poor,  to  examine  the  wage-books  of 
the  home-workers,  and  to  make  a  study  of  the 
ragged,  barefoot  children  in  the  streets.  No  honest 
man  who  has  conducted  such  an  investigation  can 
doubt  that  the  condition  of  Belfast  is  a  disgrace  to 
civihzation  and  a  frightful  menace  to  the  health 
and  morals  of  the  next  generation.  The  heavy 
scowling  faces  of  the  poor,  the  stunted  and  anaemic 
bodies  of  the  children,  haunt  the  soul  of  an  observer 
with  a  sense  of  horror  and  alarm.  One  feels,  re- 
garding those  swarms  of  children  in  the  streets,  that 
nature  has  made  them  grudgingly. 

That  Belfast  is  rich  except  in  poverty  is  a  delusion ; 
it  remains  to  consider  whether  the  city  is  rehgious. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
THE   GOSPEL   OF   MAMMON 

IF  Belfast  did  not  advertise  itself  as  the  most 
religious  city  in  Ireland,  I  should  refrain  from 
making  this  charge  against  it.  If  the  clerical 
poHticians  of  Belfast  did  not  vaingloriously  and  most 
odiously  trumpet  from  pulpit  and  platform  the 
commercial  prosperity  of  Protestantism,  I  should 
not  make  war  upon  them.  And  as  it  is,  I  confess  at 
the  outset  that  many  of  these  men  are  honest,  many 
of  them  are  sincere  and  energetic,  and  some  of  them 
make  sacrifices  for  their  rehgion.  But  my  charge 
is  that  the  rehgion  of  Belfast,  as  a  whole,  is  not  the 
rehgion  founded  by  Christ. 

The  reader  has  seen  that  the  slums  of  the  city 
are  utterly  unfit  for  human  habitation,  that  the 
iU-health  of  the  poor  is  attributed  to  "  the  low 
wages  paid  to  the  labouring  classes,"  that  sweating 
exists  in  a  most  atrocious  degree,  and  that  part  of 
the  city  is  "  plunged  in  dense  and  hopeless  poverty.'* 
Such  things  might  be  said  of  London,  but  London 
is  vast  beyond  comparison  with  Belfast,  a  great 
army   of   Christian   workers  is   there   in    constant 

292 


THE    GOSPEL    OF   MAMMON  293 

service  on  the  poor,  and  many  of  the  clergy  of  London 
either  protest  against  the  condition  of  the  masses 
or  pubhcly  deplore  the  failure  of  Christianity  in  this 
respect.  They  do  not  boast.  On  the  other  hand, 
Belfast  is  small  and  compact,  the  city  may  be  ex- 
plored in  a  day  or  two,  the  poverty  is  conspicuous 
at  every  point,  and  instead  of  challenging  the  un- 
holy prosperity  of  the  rich,  the  ministers  of  religion, 
paid  by  these  rich  sweaters,  spend  their  time  in 
denouncing  Roman  CathoHcs,  in  exalting  the  politi- 
cal principles  of  Lord  Londonderry,  and  in  boasting 
of  their  city's  prosperity. 

There  is  excessive  rehgion  in  Belfast,  excessive 
religious  activity,  but  I  declare  that  it  bears  but 
little  resemblance  to  the  religion  of  Christ.  It  is 
in  some  cases  at  least  a  religion  of  organized  self- 
righteousness  from  which  the  ministering  spirit 
of  Christianity  is  lacking.  It  is  a  rehgion  of 
large  and  comfortable  churches,  prosperous  and 
well-dressed  congregations,  cheerful  and  well-satis- 
fied tea-parties,  Bible-classes  for  the  saved,  meetings 
for  the  elect,  and  gatherings  for  the  oiled  and  bland 
There  is  not  a  manifest  devotion  to  the  poor  and 
suffering,  not  an  active  and  vital  crusade  against 
Mammon ;  but  too  much  opportunism,  too  much 
self-satisfaction. 

Penetrate  to  the  individual  soul,  and  you  find 
that  the  rehgion  is  hard,  repellent,  and  Pharisaical. 
It  breeds  bigotry,  self-esteem,  and  a  violent  intoler- 


294         THE   GOSPEL    OF   MAMMON 

ance.  The  large  and  liberal  spirit  of  charity  is  want- 
ing. Meekness  and  humility  are  excluded.  Only 
here  and  there  do  you  meet  a  gentle  and  sweet- 
minded  man  who  has  escaped  uninjured  from  the 
iron  vice  of  this  hideous  theology.  The  majority  do 
not  attract,  do  not  win,  do  not  prepossess.  They 
disgust  and  repel. 

Now,  the  Founder  of  Christianity  foretold  that 
on  the  Last  Day  those  most  sure  of  heaven,  those 
who  in  His  Name  had  done  great  things,  would  be 
turned  away,  and  that  those  welcomed  to  the  King- 
dom would  be  surprised  and  amazed,  conscious  of 
no  merit,  ignorant  even  that  they  had  rendered 
service  to  Him.  Moreover,  in  another  account  of 
the  Great  Judgment,  He  showed  that  no  theological 
tests  would  be  employed,  that  no  questions  would 
be  asked  as  to  what  creed  a  man  professed,  or  in 
what  particular  church  he  had '  membership,  but 
only  what  he  had  done  to  help  the  poor  and  suffering. 
Since  this  is  the  Founder's  own  description  of  the 
great,  eternal,  and  ultimate  judgment  of  terrestrial 
life,  we  must  conclude — there  is  no  escape  from  the 
conclusion — that  the  Hfe  of  love  and  service  is  the 
Christian  life,  and  that  theology  can  have  no  value 
or  weight  of  any  kind  whatsoever,  save,  of  course, 
in  so  far  as  it  influences  men  to  hve  the  devoted  and 
loving  life  commanded  by  the  Founder. 

By  ihis  test  the  religion  of  Belfast  is  weigh-ed  and 
found  wanting.     Dnder  the  very  eyes  of  Itie  rich 


THE   GOSPEL   OF   MAMMON  295 

and  respectable  as  they  go  to  church  are  swarms  of 
half-starved,  ill-clothed,  and  barefoot  children  play- 
ing in  the  gutters  of  the  streets.  All  about  the  wor- 
shippers as  they  give  thanks  in  their  well-warmed 
churches  for  health  and  prosperity  are  hideous  and 
congested  slums  of  "  dense  and  hopeless  poverty." 
To  right  and  to  left  of  them  in  their  daily  Hves  is  an 
appalling  sum  of  sickness  and  suffering  caused  by 
"  the  low  wages  paid  to  the  labouring  classes." 
Throughout  the  city,  from  one  end  to  the  other,  and 
spreading  even  from  the  city  to  the  villages  beyond, 
such  sweating  of  women  and  children  is  practised  as 
must  wring  the  soul  of  heaven.  And  all  these 
terrible  and  iniquitous  things  are  not  lost  in  a 
multitudinous  world  Uke  London,  but  are  obvious, 
staring,  and  emphatic  in  a  small  city  which  boasts 
of  its  Christianity. 

What  strikes  one  as  the  worst  feature  in  the 
rehgion  of  Belfast  is  the  self-satisfaction  of  religious 
people  when  you  speak  about  these  dreadful  things. 
They  tell  you,  for  instance,  that  children  go  bare- 
foot for  choice.  They  smile  at  your  sentimental 
ignorance.  Press  them,  and  ask  if  it  is  right  for 
children  of  five  and  six  years  of  age  to  be  out  in 
the  wet  streets  at  ten  o'clock  of  night — whether  they 
like  it  or  not ! — ^and  they  reply  that  one  must  expect 
that  sort  of  thing  in  a  crowded  city.  They  seem  to 
be  callous  and  untouched  by  this  wholesale  exposure 
of  childhood.    It  seems  to  them  a  small  thing  that 


296  THE    GOSPEL    OF   MAMMON 

thousands  of  parents  in  Belfast  use  their  children  as 
no  other  animal  uses  its  young.  The  natural  duties 
of  parentage  are  denied  on  every  side  of  them,  and 
they  do  nothing.  Fathers  and  mothers  pack  the 
pubhc-houses  till  late  at  night,  while  their  supper- 
less  and  half-naked  children  wander  shoeless  in  the 
mud  outside,  or  stare  through  shop  windows  at  pic- 
ture postcards  which  degrade  love,  mock  maternity, 
and  at  least  suggest  indecency.  And  these  reHgious 
people  raise  no  protest.  They  say  we  must  expect 
these  things.  They  never  loose  their  imaginations 
to  contemplate  what  they  must  expect  in  the  next 
generation  from  the  children  of  this.  They  never 
ask  themselves  whether  Christ,  if  He  came  to  Bel- 
fast, would  attend  Protestant  churches  and  listen 
to  violent  denunciations  of  Popery,  or  whether  He 
would  go  into  the  tragic  streets  seeking  the  lost, 
comforting  the  unprosperous,  and  blessing  the  neg- 
lected children.  They  seem  to  think  that  Christ 
would  even  Hke  Belfast. 

Would  you  not  think  in  a  relatively  small  city, 
with  such  misery  and  heart-breaking  cruelty  to 
children  on  every  hand,  that  the  churches  would 
unite  for  mercy  and  enhghtenment  ?  Would  you 
not  expect  a  religious  crusade  ?  Consider.  Would 
any  of  those  rehgious  people  leave  their  children 
to  wander  barefoot  in  York  Street  on  a  winter's 
night  ?  Would  they  drink  in  a  public-house  while 
their  children  hungered  outside  ?    They  know  these 


THE    GOSPEL    OF   MAMMON  297 

things  are  evil.  They  say  you  must  expect  them 
in  cities,  they  chide  you  for  making  too  much  of 
them,  and  they  grow  indignant  when  you  ask  if 
they  could  bear  to  think  for  a  moment  of  their  own 
children  in  a  hke  condition.  And  they  have  only 
to  think  for  a  moment,  only  to  reflect  for  an  instant, 
to  assure  themselves  of  terrible  responsibiUty.  But 
they  not  only  resent  criticism ;  they  are  satisfied. 
Belfast  is  rich.     The  churches  are  prosperous. 

And  this  seems  to  me  the  great  pivotal  cause  of 
Belfast's  misrepresentation  of  the  Christian  reHgion. 
Everything  is  money.  Speak  of  drunkenness  and 
cruelty  to  children,  and  they  teU  you  complacently 
that  it  is  the  fault  of  the  workers,  for  "  they  are 
earning  good  wages."  So  long  as  they  can  add  up 
to  a  respectable  total  the  shiUings  and  pence  going 
into  a  home  by  the  labours  of  father,  mother,  and 
children,  they  feel  their  conscience  to  be  absolved. 
They  seem  unable  to  reahze  that  if  a  man  gain 
the  whole  world  and  lose  his  soul,  the  transaction  is 
bad  even  from  an  economic  point  of  view.  They  do 
not  apprehend,  so  fatally  does  money  rule  the  life 
of  Belfast,  that  the  very  fact  of  both  father  and 
mother  earning  money  is  certain  evidence  that  home- 
life  is  impossible.  The  mother's  duty  is  to  feed, 
clothe,  and  rear  her  children  ;  to  labour  so  that  the 
home  may  be  happy  and  restful ;  to  make  those  httle 
rooms  attractive  to  her  husband  and  sacred  to  her 
children.     She  cannot  do  one  of  these  things  if  she 


298  THE    GOSPEL    OF    MAMMON 

is  working  all  day  in  a  factory,  or  toiling  all  day  as 
a  sweated  home-worker. 

The  factories  are  extending  to  villages  outside  the 
city.  People  rub  their  hands,  and  say  that  it  will 
increase  the  wages  of  the  peasants.  They  destroy 
the  contentment,  the  simpHcity,  the  natural  exist- 
ence and  the  home-life  of  the  peasant,  and  they  say 
that  Industrialism  is  a  blessing.    It  increases  wages. 

I  have  never  before  visited  a  city  where  the  beauty 
of  life  is  so  completely  destroyed  as  in  Belfast.  I 
believe  this  ugliness  is  due  more  than  anything  else 
to  the  false  reUgion  which  has  preached  the  gospel 
of  money  to  every  class  in  the  community.  Every- 
thing in  Belfast,  even  the  success  of  church  life, 
is  tested  by  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence.  Nothing 
is  worth  while  that  does  not  pay.  Presbyterian 
ministers  with  Hberal  minds  dare  not  preach  sweet- 
ness and  light,  dare  not  declare  themselves  Home 
Rulers,  because  it  does  not  pay.  And  drunkenness, 
child  neglect,  squalor,  and  slums  are  laid  to  the 
charge  of  the  poor  because  they  are  earning  good 
wages,  and  therefore  ought  to  know  better  !  Every- 
thing is  money.  So  far  as  I  am  aware,  among  all 
the  preachers  and  ministers  in  Belfast  who  preach 
pohtical  sermons  and  organize  the  dull  ranks  of 
respectability,  there  is  not  one  who  has  ever  moved 
a  finger  to  save  the  children  from  the  streets,  to  bring 
the  slum  landlords  to  account,  or  to  check  the  head- 
long advance  of  the  mammon- worshippers.  Certainly 


THE    GOSPEL    OF   MAMMON  299 

there  is  no  one,  if  my  informants  are  correct,  who 
has  ever  warned  the  rich  patrons  of  religion  in  Bel- 
fast that  a  man  cannot  serve  God  and  Mammon. 

I  would  beg  the  reader  to  bear  in  mind  that 
which  was  said  at  the  beginning  of  this  chapter. 
Belfast  is  in  some  ways  ugher  and  more  depressing 
than  any  other  city  I  have  yet  visited  ;  but  I  do  not 
mean  to  imply  for  a  moment  that  it  occupies  a 
worse  position  morally  and  reHgiously  than  other 
centres  where  money-making  is  the  paramount 
concern  of  humanity.  It  is  specially  detestable  and 
particularly  shameful  only  because  it  makes  so 
loud  a  boast  of  its  Christianity,  lording  itself  over 
the  rest  of  Ireland,  and  appealing  to  the  conscience 
of  England  on  the  groujid  of  religion. 

That  there  is  something  twisted  and  abnormal  in 
the  rehgion  of  Belfast  may  be  gathered,  I  think, 
from  a  letter  which  has  just  appeared  in  the  Dundee 
Advertiser  from  an  old  and  representative  Presby- 
terian minister  of  Belfast,  rebutting  my  charges 
against  the  false  Christianity  of  his  city.  This 
gentleman  had  received  a  newspaper  containing 
one  of  my  articles  "  sent  " — ^this  is  how  he  writes — 
"by  an  anonymous  cad,  with  a  most  offensive 
pencil  scrawl  on  the  margin."  In  the  midst  of  a 
very  violent  and  entirely  ill-mannered  denial  of  my 
charges,  this  Presbyterian  minister,  so  jealous  for 
the  Christianity  of  Belfast,  reverts  to  his  correspon- 
dent, the  aforesaid  "  anonymous  cad,"  and  says  : 


300  THE   GOSPEL   OF   MAMMON 

"  My  correspondent  has  gallantly  prevented  me 
from  getting  at  him,  either  with  evidence  or  with 
a  horsewhip."  I  do  not  wish  to  labour  so  small  a 
matter,  but  is  there  not  something  very  extra- 
ordinary and  rather  amusing  in  this  Christian's  idea 
of  vindicating  the  reHgiousness  of  his  city  with  a 
horsewhip  ?  Imagine  what  Tolstoy  would  have 
thought  of  such  a  Christian.  The  letter  is  worth 
quoting  because  of  its  naturalness,  its  spontaneity, 
its  self-satisfaction,  and  its  absolute  innocence  of 
being  antithetical  to  the  religion  of  Christ.  But  I 
really  beHeve  this  letter  to  be  characteristic  of  Bel- 
fast Presbyterianism.  It  is  a  rehgion,  unconsciously 
I  am  sure,  that  ignores  the  centre  of  Christ's  Heart. 

I  should  wish  the  reader  to  know  that  many  men 
and  women  in  Belfast  expressed  to  me  their  horror 
of  the  human  conditions  and  their  contempt  for  the 
poHtical  pulpits.  One  woman  told  me — ^not  a 
sensitive  and  neurotic  woman  of  fashion,  but  a 
very  sensible,  hard-headed  woman  of  business — 
that  she  cannot  bear  to  face  a  crowd  of  workers 
coming  from  the  shipyards  and  the  factories. 
"They  frighten  one,"  she  said ;  "their  faces  are  so 
hard ;  they  seem  to  scowl  at  one  with  hatred." 
Others  spoke  with  extreme  sorrow  of  the  Httle 
ragged  children  who  are  to  be  seen  in  York  Street 
at  night,  ragged  and  barefoot  even  in  winter-time. 

And  here — ^that  the  reader  may  not  think  I  have 
exaggerated — ^is  an  extract  from  an  article  in  the 


THE   GOSPEL   OF   MAMMON  301 

Ulster  OuardiaUy  concerning  the  indignation  of  its  con- 
temporaries at  some  of  my  observations.  With  this 
frank  and  honest  confession  of  a  local  critic  I  am  glad 
to  leave  a  matter  which  only  gave  me  pain  to  investi- 
gate and  which  I  have  exposed  with  more  scorn  and 
anger  than  is  altogether  good  for  peace  of  mind  : — 

But  who  is  responsible  for  the  daily  descent 
of  English  specialists  upon  our  shores  ?  Surely 
the  very  party  which  is  continually  parading  on 
EngHsh  platforms  the  sores  of  three-fourths  of 
Ireland  and  enlarging  upon  the  sound  mind 
in  the  sound  body  of  the  remaining  fourth.  This 
Pharisaical  "  Lord,  I  thank  Thee  I  am  not  as 
other  men  are,  even  as  this  poor  Nationalist  " 
attitude  simply  invites  inspection.  We  have 
never  noticed  the  journals  who  condemn  Mr. 
Begbie  for  what  he  says  about  Belfast  protesting 
against  the  descriptions  that  appear  constantly 
in  EngHsh  Tory  papers  from  special  correspon- 
dents of  "  the  frightful  state  of  the  South  and 
West  of  Ireland."  What  right  have  they  to 
complain  if  EngHsh  Liberal  papers  succumb  to 
the  temptation  to  discover  how  much  ground 
there  is  for  Ulster's  self-righteousness  and  how 
far  justified  is  her  claim  to  prosperity  and  happi- 
ness and  the  rest  of  it  ?  Mr.  Begbie  has  weighed 
us  in  our  own  balance  and  has  found  us  wanting. 
We  may  be  no  worse  in  our  conditions  of  Hfe  than 


302  THE   GOSPEL   OF   MAMMON 

similar  big  towns  across  the  water,  but  we  have 
been  bragging  as  if  there  were  "  none  such,"  and 
now  we  are  asked  to  start  whining  because  we 
are  not  accepted  at  our  own  valuation.  Man- 
chester and  Leeds  may  have  shocking  slums, 
but  Manchester  and  Leeds  do  not  perpetually 
run  down  the  rest  of  England  as  seething  in 
poverty  and  crime  and  place  themselves  on  a 
pinnacle  of  perfection.  We  in  Belfast  have  been 
doing  this  for  several  generations,  and  when 
a  stranger  comes,  sees  for  himself,  and  tells  us 
what  he  thinks  of  us,  well,  we  should  grin  and 
bear  it.  If  we  insist  on  blessing  ourselves,  we 
cannot  complain  of  others  blaming  us. 

In  one  respect,  Mr.  Begbie  has  placed  his 
finger  upon  a  cankerous  growth  in  the  reMgious 
life  of  this  city,  the  incessant  preaching  of  pohtics 
and  denunciation  of  Popery  in  our  pulpits. 
When  the  coal  strike  was  at  its  most  critical 
stage,  the  weekly  prayer-meeting  met  to  pray  for 
Divine  assistance  in  "  the  present  grave  crisis," 
but  it  was  Home  Rule  that  was  the  subject  of  the 
intercessions.  Political  sermons.  Unionist  Club 
church  parades,  anti-Home  Rule  religious  con- 
ventions, what  room  have  these  left  for  spiritual 
growth  or  the  uplifting  of  the  masses  ?  Are  there 
a  dozen  Protestant  churches  left  in  Belfast  where 
a  Liberal  can  worship  without  having  his  pohtical 
principles  attacked  ?     All  honour  to  the  excep- 


THE    GOSPEL    OF   MAMMON  303 

tions,  who  really  do  minister  to  all  sections  of 
their  flocks,  who  strive  for  the  souls  and  not  for 
the  votes  of  their  hearers,  and  who  are  more  con- 
cerned with  preaching  the  gospel  of  goodwill 
than  in  fanning  the  flames  of  rehgious  hatred. 
But  these  exceptions  are  few,  and,  as  Mr.  Begbie 
points  out,  these  men  by  abstaining  from  turning 
their  pulpits  into  pohtical  platforms  take  their 
careers  in  their  hands.  It  is  not  enough  for 
them  to  remain  neutral,  to  try  to  be  pastors  instead 
of  poHticians.  Their  very  silence  makes  them 
marked  men.  This  is  the  state  into  which  the 
religious  Hfe  of  Belfast  has  fallen.  Mr.  Begbie 
has  spoken  no  more  than  is  true,  and  there  is  not 
an  Ulster  Liberal  Protestant  who  will  fail  to 
corroborate  his  finding. 

Belfast  is  built  upon  "  slob,"  the  foundations  of 
the  rich  city  are  merely  piles  of  timber  driven  into 
the  marshy  sludge  of  the  river.  I  believe  that  the 
foundation  of  its  prosperity  is  human  slob,  the 
flesh  and  blood  sludge  of  sweated  humanity  ;  and 
I  believe  that  one  day  all  this  boastful  prosperity 
will  subside  in  ruin.  How  much  slob  there  may  be 
in  the  rehgion  of  Belfast  I  do  not  pretend  to  deter- 
mine ;  but  I  am  very  sure  that  this  rehgion  is  not 
founded  upon  the  rock. 

"Will  anyone,"  asked  Benjamin  Whichcote,"  expect 
salvation  from  a  Saviour  that  he  will  not  imitate?" 


CHAPTER  XXn 
CONCLUSIONS 

IF  I  were  an  Irishman  and  lived  in  Belfast,  I 
should  be  a  Unionist — but  not,  the  God  of 
Sweetness  and  Light  helping  me,  an  Orangeman.  I 
should  be  a  Unionist  in  the  same  spirit  and  for  the 
same  reason  as  the  young  Socialist  is  a  Unionist, 
of  whom  mention  was  made  in  the  early  pages  of 
this  book.  I  should  be  a  Unionist  in  order  to  force 
for  Belfast,  by  the  strong  hand  of  democratic 
England,  taxation  of  the  rich  and  social  reformation 
for  the  poor. 

And  but  for  the  obsession  of  a  very  arrogant,  dis- 
figuring, and  entirely  un-Christlike  Protestantism — 
an  artificially  organized  political  reHgiousness — 
nine-tenths  of  the  workmen  in  Belfast  would  be 
consistent  Unionists  of  this  character.  Even  as  it 
is,  the  number  of  men  who  ignore  the  hypocrisy  of 
politics  disguised  as  rehgion,  and  who  are  clear- 
headed democrats  and  rational  materialists,  is  very 
great  and  increases  every  day.  Since  the  coming 
of  hard-headed  shipwrights  from  Scotland  in  the 
eighties — democrats  who  cared  nothing  at  all  about 

304 


A   BELBWST   COURT. 


CONCLUSIONS  305 

the  religious  feud  of  Ulster — intelligent  workmen 
are  ceasing  to  believe  the  silly  calumny  that 
Mr.  Redmond  will  take  their  jobs  and  business  from 
them  and  bestow  both  these  blessings  upon  his 
CathoHc  supporters  ;  but  they  refuse  to  believe — 
and  I  think  they  have  wisdom — that  the  rule  of 
Mr.  Redmond  in  DubHn  will  be  as  fruitful  with 
blessings  for  democracy  in  Belfast  as  the  rule  of 
Mr.  Lloyd  George  in  London. 

No  sensible  man  in  Ireland  can  beUeve  that  an 
Irish  ParHament  will  get  quicker  to  the  goal  of 
SociaUsm  than  a  British  ParHament.  An  Irish 
ParHament  will  be  Conservative.  Save  for  a  few 
members  from  the  industrial  quarters  of  Ulster,  it 
will  be  untouched  by  the  democratic  spirit  of 
modern  Europe.  It  wiU  be  a  ParHament  represent- 
ing before  everything  else  the  democracy  of  a  land- 
owning peasantry.  I  have  no  doubt  at  all  in  my 
mind  that  even  if  all  the  nations  of  the  civiHzed 
world  were  to  accept  SociaHsm  Ireland  would  remain 
Conservative,  and  Conservative  as  England  herself 
has  never  been  since  the  passing  of  the  Reform  Bill. 

The  real  Ulster  Difficulty  Hes  in  this  natural  con- 
servatism of  the  Irish  majority.  Little  or  nothing 
will  be  done  by  an  Irish  ParHament,  whose  business 
will  be  to  deal  with  natural  conditions — ^Httle  or 
nothing  wiU  be  done  to  solve  the  difficulties  of  un- 
natural conditions  existing  in  North-East  Ulster, 
One  might  as  weU  look  to  the  British  ParHament  to 


306  CONCLUSIONS 

spend  itself  on  legislation  for  the  smallholders  of 
industrial  England  as  expect  an  Irish  ParUament 
to  labour  for  the  social  betterment  of  the  mechanics 
of  agricultural  Ireland.  What  the  Belfast  workman 
finds  it  difiicult  to  reaUze  is  this,  that  he  lives  in 
unnatural  conditions,  that  his  existence  is  of  no 
paramount  importance  to  Ireland,  and  that  the 
majority  of  his  feUow-countrymen  are  determined 
to  rescue  themselves  from  a  form  of  government 
which  is  unsuitable  to  people  living  in  natural  con- 
ditions. 

English  people  are  now  so  accustomed  to  regard 
legislation  as  the  experimental  remedies  of  social 
reformers  attempting  to  deal  with  the  diseases  of 
unnatural  conditions,  that  they  cannot  conceive  of 
a  legislation  which  would  be  entirely  directed  to  the 
development  and  conservation  of  perfectly  healthy 
and  perfectly  natural  conditions.  Legislation  has 
ceased  for  us  to  be  a  wholesome  food  ;  it  has  become 
a  patent  medicine.  It  is  no  longer  an  evolution  ;  it 
is  a  surgical  operation.  But  Ireland  is  a  country 
which  has  preserved  natural  Ufe.  Except  for  the 
destitution,  the  slums,  the  sweating,  and  the  infant 
mortality  of  a  corner  in  North-East  Ulster,  it  is  a 
coimtry  which  pursues  the  way  of  primitive  man- 
kind— ^much  nearer  to  the  peasants  of  India  in  its 
manner  of  existence  than  to  the  scrofulous  and 
anaemic  inhabitants  of  our  industrial  towns.  Ireland 
does  not  need,  and  she  does  not  desire,  the  legisla- 


CONCLUSIONS  307 

tion  of  the  Socialist,  the  Labour  Party,  and  the 
advanced  Liberal.  She  could  hardly  have  a  more 
congenial  Prime  Minister — this  rebel  Ireland — than 
Mr.  Henry  Chaplin,  or  Mr.  Walter  Long. 

Now  the  natural  condition  of  Irish  humanity  is 
at  once  the  great  attraction  and  the  great  instruction 
of  the  Irish  question  for  modern  England.  We  our- 
selves are  committed,  perhaps  hopelessly  committed, 
to  competitive  CommerciaUsm.  Our  peasantry  is, 
practically  speaking,  extinct.  We  are  manufacturers. 
We  live  in  slums.  Our  extremes  of  wealth  and 
poverty,  and  the  extent  of  our  social  problems,  are 
unmatched  in  Europe.  So  complex  and  confusing 
is  our  condition  that  two  clergymen  of  great  in- 
tellectual abiUties  and  undoubted  sincerity,  Bishop 
Gore  and  Canon  Hensley  Henson,  come  to  blows  in 
the  colunms  of  The  Times  over  morals  and  economics. 
We  are  told,  in  the  course  of  this  clerical  correspond- 
ence, that  the  idea  of  justice  is  aHen  to  a  discussion 
about  wages  ;  struggle  for  profits,  it  seems,  must 
be  left  free  to  buy  its  labour  in  the  cheapest  market ; 
there  is  no  means  for  ascertaining  what  is  a  just 
wage — the  term  is  absurd — we  possess  only  a  very 
obvious  way  of  contriving  to  pay  as  Httle  as  possible. 

For  instance,  I  employ  a  gardener  and  pay  him 
twenty  shiUings  a  week  ;  a  man  out  of  work  comes 
begging  at  my  door  and  offers  to  take  the  gardener's 
place  at  fifteen  shillings  a  week  ;  six  months  later  a 
man  in  more  desperate  straits  begs  to  be  taken  as 


308  CONCLUSIONS 

gardener  at  twelve  shillings,  at  ten  shillings,  even  at 
eight  shillings  a  week.  I  must  not  say  to  myself, 
*'  The  work  is  worth  twenty  shillings  a  week  ;  a  man 
cannot  support  himself  in  Christian  decency  on  less." 
I  must  not  listen  to  my  conscience,  to  the  moral  side 
of  my  nature,  when  it  says  to  me  :  "  It  is  an  infamy, 
worse  than  cheating,  to  take  advantage  of  this  man's 
hunger  and  bitter  need."  No  ;  for  to  entertain  such 
a  notion  would  be  to  import  morals  into  economics. 
Only  a  blundering  sub-editor,  enamoured  of  engaging 
headlines,  could  indulge  a  fooHsh  taste  for  senti- 
mentalism  by  a  collocation  of  such  discordant  words 
as  "  Justice  and  Wages."  Capital  must  buy  its 
labour,  where  Misery  buys  its  broken  meat,  in  the 
cheapest  market.  On  that  power  of  our  manu- 
facturers to  buy  humanity  at  bottom  prices  is 
founded  the  safety,  honour,  and  welfare  of  Great 
Britain's  commerce. 

To  such  a  gospel  we  are  now  committed.  It  is 
perfectly  logical,  perfectly  true,  perfectly  defensible. 
It  may  trouble  the  conscience  of  a  few  virtuous 
people,  but  it  is  the  central  fact  of  our  modern 
existence.  You  can  no  more  bring  rehgion  into  the 
sphere  of  economics  than  you  can  bring  a  lighted 
candle  into  the  region  of  a  gas  escape.  Six  weeks  of 
Mr.  Victor  Grayson  at  Downing  Street  would  bring 
the  British  Empire  to  ruin.  No  man  of  honest  sense 
can  believe  that  industrial  England  could  survive 
such  a  preposterous  experiment.    And  why  is  it  so 


CONCLUSIONS  309 

preposterous  ?  Because  the  extreme  Socialists  are 
attempting  to  make  normal  ideas  prevail  in  a  com- 
munity which  has  ceased  to  be  normal.  They  are 
seeking  to  govern  unnatural  conditions  by  natural 
considerations.  This  is  the  very  heart  and  centre 
of  our  national  confusion. 

Do  we  recognize  that  England  has  ceased  to  live 
its  life  under  natural  conditions  ?  Do  we  reaHze  that 
to  pack  men  in  conglomerate  masses,  to  breed 
posterity  out  of  aU  touch  with  nature,  to  make  the 
day  a  torture  of  mechanic  toil,  and  the  night  a 
pandemonium  of  pubHc-house  and  blatant  music- 
hall  ;  do  we  reahze  that  to  be  so  expatriated  from 
nature  that  even  the  instincts  of  maternity  and 
motherhood  have  to  be  preached  and  taught  to  our 
women  like  a  difficult  lesson — do  we  reaUze  that  this 
is  an  effort  of  humanity  to  live  clean  contrary  to  the 
laws  of  nature  ? 

It  is  of  the  utmost  importance  that  we  should  con- 
front this  fact  of  modem  industrialism.  I  do  not 
argue  that  men  and  women  in  cities  must  be  un- 
healthy, that  children  must  grow  to  maturity  with- 
out vigour  and  without  enthusiasm,  that  urban 
humanity  must  be  godless  and  immoral.  That  is 
not  the  question,  and  that  is  not  of  relative  im- 
portance. My  contention  is  that  the  inhabitants  of 
a  huge  and  crowded  industrial  town  are  not  natural 
men  and  women,  that  the  conditions  of  their  exist- 
ence are  so  foreign  and  contrary  to  natural  conditions 


310  CONCLUSIONS 

that  their  thoughts  cease  to  be  the  thoughts  of  men 
and  women  living  in  the  immemorial  conditions  of 
humanity — in  a  word,  I  contend  that  intellectually 
and  spiritually  an  industrial  population  is  an 
artificial  and  manufactured  humanity. 

When  you  consider  that  there  are  thousands  of 
women  on  the  eve  of  maternity  working  in  factories 
that  exacerbate  the  nervous  system  and  imperil 
physical  health  ;  when  you  consider  that  death's 
annual  toll  of  infants  under  one  year  of  age  is  hke 
the  carnage  of  a  military  campaign  ;  when  you 
consider  that  little  children  in  school  have  to  be 
regularly  inspected,  like  so  many  dotards,  for  de- 
fective eyesight  and  defective  teeth  ;  when  you 
consider  that  the  nourishment  of  the  vast  majority 
of  these  people  is  notoriously  the  worst  possible  kind 
of  tinned  or  bottled  dietary ;  when  you  consider 
that  one  of  the  most  profitable  trades  of  the  country 
is  the  ceaseless  manufacture  of  pre-digested  foods 
and  patent  medicines  ;  when  you  consider  that  by 
far  the  greatest  number  of  famihes  in  England  are 
now  living  without  a  garden,  treading  for  ever  on 
stone,  walled  in  on  every  side  by  brick,  shut  out 
completely  from  the  beauty  and  serenity  of  nature 
— so  that  even  sunset  is  obscured  by  chimneys 
and  the  flare  of  artificial  illumination  puts  out  the 
light  of  the  stars — when  you  consider  these  things 
you  must  come,  willingly  or  unwillingly,  to  the  con- 
fession, which  is  so  startUng  if  its  significance  is 


CONCLUSIONS  311 

perceived,  that  the  life  of  an  industrial  population 
is  unnatural  and  that  the  thoughts  of  such  a  popula- 
tion must  also  be  unnatural.  They  are  unconscious 
of  the  majesty  of  nature,  unaware  even  of  the 
mystery  of  their  own  bodies.  A  tired  cynicism,  a 
brutal  depreciation  of  glory  and  enthusiasm,  a  harsh 
embittered  contempt  for  wonder  and  reverence 
paralyses  the  noblest  functions  of  these  artificial 
minds.  In  the  solitude  of  their  souls  such  people 
are  as  different  from  natural  man  as  the  Thames  of 
Wapping  from  the  Thames  of  Marlow. 

Consider,  too,  the  state  of  things  in  the  region  of 
intellectual  thought.  The  playwrights  of  civiHzation, 
and  a  considerable  number  of  noveUsts  and  philos- 
ophers, devote  themselves  almost  entirely  and 
with  a  most  fantastic  seriousness  to  what  civiHzation 
has  termed  the  Marriage  Problem. 

The  woman  who  refuses  to  bear  children  is  the 
great  figure  of  modern  art.  She  is  the  rouged,  frizzed, 
corseted,  and  scented  Madonna  in  the  temple  of 
our  chattering  MateriaHsm.  She  regards  maternity 
through  blackened  eyes  with  a  shuddering  horror, 
and  turns  to  adultery  with  a  quiver  of  artistic  satis- 
faction. The  good  man  who  marries  a  good  woman, 
who  sacrifices  himself  for  posterity  and  finds  in  the 
sacrifice  the  enthusiasm  of  his  life,  cuts  but  a  sorry 
if  not  a  ridiculous  figure  on  the  modern  stage.  It  is 
only  to  a  music-haU  audience  that  a  man  may  appear 
with  an  infant  in  his  arms,  and  then  it  is  to  degrade 


312  CONCLUSIONS 

fatherhood  and  to  set  the  atmosphere,  that  reeks 
with  whisky  and  tobacco,  rocking  with  hilarious 
laughter.  The  central  companion  of  the  adulteress 
on  the  modern  stage  is  the  smooth  blackguard  who 
breaks  the  sacred  law  of  hospitahty  and  coos  his 
unholy  way  to  the  dishonour  of  his  friend's  wife, 
even,  as  in  one  notorious  case,  actually  to  the 
violation  of  his  host's  daughter — then  to  write  a 
book  about  it  ! 

Adultery  has  always  had,  like  dirty  stories,  a 
morbid  fascination  for  the  backward  individuals  of 
an  artificial  state  ;  but  it  has  been  reserved  for  a 
community  so  artificial  and  unnatural  as  our  own  to 
exalt  the  adulteress,  to  justify  the  seducer,  and  to 
make — ^not  the  universe,  not  God,  not  love,  not 
righteousness,  not  science — but  dirty-mindedness 
the  intellectual  occupation  of  its  serious  thinkers. 

Take,  also,  the  condition  of  mind  which  exists 
among  those  women  of  our  cities  who  for  the  sake  of 
getting  a  Parliamentary  vote  set  at  defiance  the 
whole  law  of  Christ  and  tread  underfoot  the  very 
modesty  of  nature.  A  man  tempted  by  hunger  may 
break  the  law  of  Christ,  may  defy  the  criminal  law, 
and  we  pity  him,  excuse  him,  and  punish  him ;  but  we 
are  asked  not  to  excuse,  but  verily  to  admire,  women 
who  violate  the  most  fundamental  laws  of  humanity, 
who  adjudge  themselves  superior  to  the  teaching  of 
Christ,  who  in  cold  blood  and  with  calculation  adopt 
violence  as  a  method,  who  drag  the  modesty  and 


CONCLUSIONS  313 

beauty  and  self-effacement  of  womanhood  through 
the  mud  of  degradation — for  the  sake  of  a  vote. 

Take,  again,  the  condition  of  public  opinion. 
Men  notorious  for  crime  or  rascaUty  occupy  un- 
challenged a  prominent  place  in  the  national  life. 
A  swindler  who  enriched  himself  by  the  ruin  of 
many  thousands  of  people,  and  who  bought  himself 
a  place  in  the  country,  where  he  made  lackeys  and 
sponges  of  the  peasantry,  has  this  Hne  for  his 
epitaph,  "  He  was  kind  to  the  poor."  And  nobody 
laughs ;  nobody  denounces  the  squirming  senti- 
mental hypocrisy  of  that  unhallowed  grave.  A 
company  promoter,  who  like  a  prostitute  every  day 
dresses  himself  attractively,  and  goes  abroad  smiUng 
and  captivating,  and  over  the  luncheon  table  of 
restaurants  makes  himself  agreeable  to  rich  old  men 
for  the  sake  of  robbery — a  man  who  in  any  natural 
state  of  existence  would  be  put  in  the  pond  or  hung 
from  the  nearest  tree — may  go  in  London  im- 
punished  by  the  law,  continue  his  swindUng  in  the 
eye  of  authority,  and  even  be  accepted  by  thousands 
of  his  feUow-countrymen  as  a  hero  of  rational 
common  sense.  Of  all  the  ministers  of  rehgion, 
tumbUng  over  each  other  in  London,  there  is  no 
one  to  proclaim  the  scandal  of  this  public  apathy. 

Authority  in  London  also  accepts  as  natural,  as 
unalterable,  a  state  of  things  which  exists  in  no 
single  city  of  Ireland — a  procession,  almost  an  army, 
of  women  parading  the  most  central  streets  for 


314  CONCLUSIONS 

the  purpose  of  immorality,  challenging  the  eyes  of 
virtuous  women  with  a  mocking  boldness,  and 
starthng  pure  and  lovely  children  wellnigh  out  of 
their  senses.  This  abomination,  which  the  least 
virtuous  village  in  England  would  regard  as  the 
triumph  of  hell,  is  considered  in  London,  and  in 
the  great  industrial  cities,  a  natural  evil. 

A  certain  corner  of  Hyde  Park  has  become  the 
centre  for  a  most  atrocious  and  unspeakable  vice  ; 
and  neither  the  manhood  of  the  city,  nor  the  poHce, 
take  steps  to  crush  it  out  of  existence.  These  things, 
we  are  told,  exist  everywhere  ;  it  is  impossible  to 
stop  them. 

Pubhc  opinion  in  England  has  suffered  an  enor- 
mous change  since  the  coming  of  the  industrial  era. 
Once  it  was  robust  for  virtue,  a  trifle  truculent  and 
boisterous  perhaps,  but  always  healthy,  wholesome, 
downright  and  mascuHne.  But  with  the  coming  of 
industriahsm  it  lost  vigour  and  slackened  in  its 
fibre.  It  is  now  little  more  than  spasmodic  senti- 
mentalism.  At  one  minute  society  empties  its  purse 
at  the  feet  of  General  Booth,  at  the  next  it  is  giving 
bazaars  in  aid  of  the  victims  of  a  shipwreck,  and  at 
the  next,  as  Mr.  Masterman  puts  it,  "  shepherding 
its  friends  into  drawing-room  meetings  to  Hsten  to 
some  attractive  speaker — an  actor,  a  Labour 
member,  a  professional  humorist — pleading  for  pity 
to  the  poor."  However  organized,  it  has  not  now 
even  force  enough  to  prevent  women  of  virtue  walking 


CONCLUSIONS  315 

about  the  streets  dressed  so  grotesquely,  so  inde- 
corously, and  so  stupidly  that  an  honest  countryman 
must  think  them  mad.  The  very  street  boys  of 
London  have  lost  the  quickness  of  their  eye  and  the 
energy  of  their  mockery  for  ridiculous  absurdity. 
People  are  afraid  to  express  censure  or  to  laugh  at 
monstrosity.  Not  one  man  in  ten  thousand  is  strong 
enough  publicly  to  express  contempt  for  the  folly 
and  debasement  of  the  times. 

But  I  think  one  perceives  more  clearly  than  else- 
where the  unreality  of  modern  civilization  in  the 
works  of  Hterary  reformers,  both  Enghsh  and 
American.  Books  and  plays  are  treated  with  a 
high  seriousness  that  expose  the  vices  and  excesses 
of  plutocracy,  that  draw  lurid  pictures  of  extrava- 
gance, luxury,  and  ostentation  among  a  mere  hand- 
ful of  people  who  have  scrambled  to  the  top  of  the 
swarming  ant-heap  of  industrialism.  Democratic 
poHticians  catch  fire  from  these  books  and  plays, 
and  the  platform  as  weU  as  the  stage,  the  newspaper 
columns  as  well  as  the  hbraries,  are  loud  with  scorn 
and  denunciation  of  the  rich. 

Everyone  living  in  contact  with  modern  civiliza- 
tion is  in  a  hurry  ;  not  only  the  Smart  Set,  but  the 
prophets  and  teachers,  are  rushing  to  exhaust  life. 
They  have  no  time  for  deUberation.  The  ancient 
injunction,  "  Be  still,  and  know  that  I  am  God,"  is 
scouted  as  absurd  ;  the  man  in  a  motor-car  does  not 
even  stop  when  he  has  knocked  over  a  bicyclist  or 


S16  CONCLUSIONS 

run  his  wheels  over  a  child.  The  great  thing  now  is 
not  to  pause,  not  to  rest,  not  to  be  stiU,  but  to  race 
like  the  wind.  These  literary  and  political  reformers, 
for  instance,  seem  incapable  of  the  most  elementary 
reflection.  They  do  not  see,  apparently,  that  if 
plutocracy  were  aboHshed,  if  the  wealth  of  these  few 
people  were  distributed  over  the  general  field  of 
national  Hfe,  and  if  SociaHsm  in  fullest  measure  came 
to  the  rescue  of  civihzation,  humanity  would  be  in 
just  as  perilous  and  calamitous  a  condition  as  it  is  at 
the  present  moment.  It  wiU  still  be,  to  quote  Mr. 
Masterman  again,  "  a  compHcated  machine,  which 
has  escaped  the  control  of  all  human  voHtion,  and 
is  progressing  towards  no  intelligible  goal .  .  .  some 
black  windmill,  with  gigantic  wings,  rotating  un- 
tended  under  the  huge  spaces  of  night." 

Except  in  so  far  as  the  land  laws  have  suffered 
the  peasantry  to  rot,  and  have  driven  rural  England 
into  the  slums  of  cities,  the  fault  of  aU  our  misery  lies 
at  the  door  of  democracy.  The  working-classes 
make  England  great  or  small.  It  is  the  soul  of 
the  working-classes  that  makes  her  righteous  or 
infamous.  It  is  the  spirit  of  the  working-classes  that 
determines  the  tone  and  tendency  of  EngHsh  Hfe. 
Plutocracy  may  scatter  its  money  as  it  wiU,  Aris- 
tocracy may  be  gracious  or  stupid,  even  Art  and 
Literature  may  f aU  victims  to  ephemeral  excitements 
and  transitory  crazes,  losing  all  contact  with  the 
high  and  lofty  interests  of  immortality ;  but  so  long 


CONCLUSIONS  317 

as  democracy  is  virtuous,  so  long  as  democracy  is 
conscious  of  reverence  and  wonder,  so  long  as 
democracy  honours  motherhood  and  makes  home- 
life  the  altar  of  the  national  reHgion,  England  will 
be  great,  civilization  will  be  secure,  and  the  blessing 
of  God  wiU  rest  upon  the  EngHsh  people. 

But  democracy  is  ceasing  to  care  for  the  things 
which  make  Hfe  beautiful  and  serene.  Humility  is 
out  of  fashion,  and  self-aggression  is  the  law.  Not 
to  hve  simply,  and  healthfully,  and  gratefully,  but 
to  live  richly,  showily,  and  noisily  is  the  passion  of 
the  industrial  population.  It  is  like  a  stampede  in 
a  moment  of  crisis.  It  is  as  if  the  ship  of  national 
life  were  sinking,  and  men,  forgetting  faith  in  God 
and  hope  of  immortahty,  thrust  women  out  of  their 
way,  crush  children  under  their  feet,  and  make  for 
boats  which  will  not  live  an  hour  in  the  sea  of  God's 
judgment.  Money,  not  life,  is  the  occupation  of 
their  thoughts.  They  are  persuaded  that  pleasure 
can  be  bought,  that  rest  is  marked  with  a  price, 
that  peace  is  to  be  had  in  the  market-place.  They 
will  not  hsten  to  the  wisdom  of  the  ages,  they  are 
impatient  with  the  warning  of  history,  they  actually 
ignore  and  accuse  of  darkness  the  Light  of  the  World. 
The  symbol  of  democracy  is  the  Lion  of  Force,  not 
the  meek  and  lowly  Lamb  of  God. 

And  nothing  else  can  be  expected  of  an  industrial 
democracy.  The  miUions  of  England  Hve  no  longer 
out  of  doors.     They  see  nothing  of  nature's  quiet. 


318  CONCLUSIONS 

They  experience  nothing  of  nature's  grandeur. 
They  are  shut  up  within  walls  for  the  long  hours  of 
their  labour,  and  they  go  from  their  labour  to  a  dark 
and  sunless  house  in  the  slums.  They  have  no  ex- 
perience of  nature,  no  experience  of  home.  Their 
wives  toil  in  factories,  or  at  sweated  labour  in  a 
miserable  kitchen ;  their  children  are  pale,  querulous, 
and  unhkeable  ;  the  food  they  eat  is  iU-cooked  and 
hideously  set  before  them  ;  they  have  no  gardens 
where  they  may  dig,  plant,  and  reap  ;  the  rooms 
they  inhabit  are  airless  and  dirty  ;  the  beds  they 
lie  on  are  vile  and  unrestful.  They  awake  to  the 
clamour  of  the  factory  beU. 

From  the  music-hall,  where  domestic  life  is  de- 
graded ;  from  the  cinematograph  exhibition,  where 
crime  and  reckless  adventure  are  exalted ;  from  the 
pubhc-house,  where  poison  is  drunk  and  where 
boxing,  football,  dog-fighting,  and  horse-racing  are 
discussed  loudly  and  excitedly  in  a  din  of  voices  ; 
from  the  football  match  on  Saturday  afternoons, 
and  the  newspaper  full  of  murders  and  divorces  on 
Sunday — what  can  these  people  gather  to  elevate 
their  minds  and  dignify  their  souls  ? 

And  even,  as  is  very  often  the  case,  where  the 
women  are  clean,  thrifty,  and  domestic,  where  the 
men  are  intelligent,  temperate,  and  self-respecting, 
you  find  that  their  souls  are  almost  always  untouched 
by  the  grandeur  and  blessing  of  existence.  They 
have  Httle  or  no  conception  of  the  dignity  of  spiritual 


CONCLUSIONS  319 

life.  They  toil  that  their  daughters  may  not  have 
to  go  out  as  domestic  servants,  and  that  their  sons 
may  pass  competitive  examinations  and  wear  black 
coats  for  the  rest  of  their  days.  Their  hoHday  is 
spent  on  a  shore  so  packed  with  humanity  that  you 
cannot  see  the  sand.  They  pity  the  field  labourers 
whom  they  see  from  the  windows  of  their  crowded 
railway  carriage.  To  spend  an  hour  in  a  wood,  an 
hour  in  a  field,  an  hour  in  exploring  a  hedgerow, 
would  be  a  form  of  torture  to  them.  They  read 
novelettes  that  fiatter  aristocracy.  They  dress  to  look 
fashionable.  They  walk  the  streets  to  show  them- 
selves.  They  go  to  church  because  it  is  respectable. 

The  very  best  people  in  an  industrial  population 
suffer  from  the  unnatural  conditions  of  their  lives. 
They  are  out  of  touch  with  ReaHty. 

Mr.  Healy  said  recently  in  the  House  of  Commons  : 
"  You  may  be  a  great  Empire,  but  we  cannot 
afford  you."  It  is  true,  morally  as  weU  as  economic- 
ally, that  Ireland  cannot  afford  Great  Britain. 
CathoHc  Ireland  desires  natural  conditions  and 
conservative  patience.  She  is  in  less  hurry  to 
exhaust  Hfe  than  "  awakened  "  and  modern  China. 
She  would  develop  her  resources  quietly  and 
naturaUy.  She  is  of  opinion  that  existence  is  more 
important  than  wages.  She  has  no  ambition  to  be 
rich  at  the  cost  of  peace,  to  gain  the  whole  world 
and  lose  her  soul.  She  beheves  that  home-hfe  is 
the  centre  of  human  Hfe,  that  the  spirit  of  the 


320  CONCLUSIONS 

individual  is  indestructible  and  divinely  immortal, 
that  virtue  is  of  immense  importance,  that  com- 
munion with  God  is  a  reality  and  a  blessing,  that 
the  foremost  concern  of  every  man,  woman,  and 
child — the  concern  infinitely  more  important  than 
any  conceivable  advantage  in  the  material  world — 
is  the  spiritual  life. 

The  spiritual  Hfe  !  How  odd  that  phrase  would 
sound  in  the  public-houses  of  our  industrial  slums. 
Would  it  be  understood  ?  Would  it  have  any  more 
significance  than  a  sonnet  of  Shakespeare  ?  In 
Catholic  Ireland — even  among  the  most  ignorant 
of  the  peasants,  the  most  demoralized  of  the 
urban  population — spiritual  life  is  the  supreme 
Reality. 

If,  then,  I  Uved  in  rural  Ireland  I  should  be  for 
Irish  self-government.  I  should  want  to  save  my 
country  from  dragging  at  the  heels  of  a  rich,  power- 
ful, and  sorely  troubled  nation  committed  to  in- 
dustrialism. I  should  fight  to  preserve  the  character 
of  my  own  people,  their  simplicity,  their  natural 
conditions,  their  contentment,  and  their  faith  in 
God.  And  if  I  lived  in  Belfast,  as  I  said  before,  I 
should  be  a  Unionist,  a  Unionist  for  the  sake  of 
England's  purse  and  her  genius  for  social  legislation. 

But  I  live  in  England,  and  here  in  England, 
writing  the  last  pages  of  this  book,  I  am  conscious 
that  the  Irish  question — ^rescued  from  the  rival 
schools  of  Nationalists  and  Orangemen — presents 


CONCLUSIONS  321 

an  individual  question  to  the  mind  of  honest  and 
disinterested  men  which  admits  of  two  contrary 
answers. 

Is  it  possible,  one  asks  oneself,  to  arrest  the  head- 
long and  tumultuous  course  of  modern  industriaHsm? 
Is  it  possible  for  Ireland  to  make  herself  an  oasis  of 
tranquillity  and  spiritual  peace  in  the  sand-storm  of 
materiahsm  which  is  now  raging  across  this  desert 
of  modern*  hfe  ?  Is  it  not  better  for  her  to  cling 
with  all  her  might  to  England,  trusting  that  the 
immense  wealth,  the  unparalleled  might,  and  the 
amazing  luck  of  this  tremendous  neighbour  may 
bring  her  safely  through  the  storm,  may  land  her  at 
last  in  some  unimagined  millennium  ? 

On  the  other  hand,  remembering  the  slums  of 
Belfast  and  the  beauty  of  Port-na-blah,  one  is 
tempted  to  cry  out  to  England  with  aU  the  energy 
of  one's  soul,  that  she  has  taken  a  wrong  road,  that 
ruin  awaits  her  in  the  near  distance,  that  at  all 
hazards  she  must  stop  and  get  back  as  soon  as 
possible  to  the  path  of  nature. 

It  seems  the  most  monstrous  thing  in  the  world 
to  suggest  that  our  great,  mighty,  and  most  glorious 
England  should  call  a  halt,  should  stop  in  her  trium- 
phant progress  of  conquest  and  dominion,  should 
interrupt  her  work  of  solving  social  problems,  to 
listen  for  a  moment  to  some  humble  voice  crying 
that  her  feet  are  on  the  way  of  ruin  and  calamity. 
As  well  might  a  vegetarian  interrupt  the  mastication 


322  CONCLUSIONS 

of  roast  beef  at  the  Lord  Mayor's  Banquet  with  a 
chemical  analysis  of  pea-nuts  and  lentils. 

I  will  not  presume  to  lift  my  voice  and  cry  a  halt. 
It  may  be  that  out  of  our  present  distress  England 
is  weaving  some  wondrous  pattern  of  the  Infinite  Will. 
It  may  be  that  industriaHsm,  and  all  the  battling 
for  material  rewards,  and  aU  the  struggle  for  mere 
animal  existence  among  the  millions  of  democracy, 
have  a  sublime  significance,  are  in  the  moving  light 
of  divine  revelation.  Much  in  this  fierce  and  awful 
civiHzation  must  perish,  but  some  wonderful  beauty 
may  survive  that  will  Hghten  for  evermore  the  way 
of  humanity.  I  can  imagine  such  an  emergence, 
though  I  cannot  detect  a  shadow  of  its  coming. 

But  I  think  it  is  wise  for  Ireland  to  pursue  her 
own  road.  I  am  convinced  that  England  has  no 
legitimate  right  to  coerce  the  soul  and  character  of 
Ireland,  to  compel  that  Httle  nation  to  march  at  her 
heels.  And  I  beHeve  that  it  is  good  for  England  to 
possess  in  her  Empire,  and  close  at  her  luxurious 
door,  this  modest,  affectionate,  and  thrifty  people 
who  are  struggHng  to  Hve  the  spiritual  life. 

After  all,  the  two  nations  are  endeavouring  to 
make  two  different  experiments.  England  is  seeking 
to  Hve  without  relation  to  Nature.  Ireland  is  seeking 
to  Hve  without  relation  to  MateriaHsm.  Both  en- 
deavours are  worth  a  student's  while  to  watch ; 
the  contrast  may  have  an  infinite  value  for  the 
philosophers  of  the  next  century.    As  Ireland  has 


CONCLUSIONS  323 

no  right  to  prevent  England  from  making  her  ex- 
periment, England  has  no  right  to  prevent  Ireland 
from  making  hers.  And  remember,  it  has  been 
England's  beHef  until  quite  recently  that  a  bold 
and  a  free  peasantry  is  essential  to  national  great- 
ness, that  a  rural  population  is  of  more  concern  to 
a  State  than  an  urban  population.  Ireland,  on  this 
matter,  has  not  changed  her  mind.  And  England 
used  to  think — ^if  her  greatest  poets  and  sages  are  to 
be  trusted — ^that  the  home  is  the  unit  of  the  nation, 
that  rehgion  is  the  supreme  law  of  the  individual, 
and  that  it  is  impossible  to  serve  both  God  and 
Mammon.  On  these  matters,  too,  Ireland  has  not 
changed  her  mind. 

England  has  changed  her  mind  with  the  realiza- 
tion that  it  is  possible  not  only  to  Hve,  but  even  to 
create  enormous  wealth,  in  conditions  which  are 
unnatural.  She  has  made  her  own  Reahty — a  tre- 
mendous and  most  awe-inspiring  Reahty — and  in 
contemplation  of  this  immense  Reahty  of  her  own 
creation,  she  has  lost  almost  the  knowledge  of  the 
older  if  less  reputable  Reahty  of  nature.  At  any 
rate,  she  is  indifferent  to  it.  Her  cities  boast  the 
increase  of  their  herded  humanity.  Sanitation 
issues  its  challenges  to  Arcady.  The  Model  DweUing 
multipHes  as  the  thatched  cottage  falls  into  ruin. 
And  the  Labour  Party,  monopohzing  Parhament, 
has  a  mandate  from  every  workman  in  the  State, 
except  the  peasant. 


324  CONCLUSIONS 

One  may  almost  say  that  England  has  lost  her 
taste  for  nature — ^as  a  man  loses  his  taste  for  a 
particular  wine,  a  particular  game.  She  is  able  to 
contemplate  creation  without  wonder  and  without 
admiration.  She  is  able  to  confront  the  tremendous 
thought  of  God  without  reverence  and  without 
misgiving.  She  is  sceptical  about  immortahty,  and 
contemptuous  of  religious  enthusiasm.  She  has 
ceased  to  be  the  poet  of  this  beautiful  earth  and  the 
priest  of  the  immense  universe  which  overshadows 
humanity  ;  she  has  become  the  critic  of  natural 
law,  the  detective  looking  everywhere  for  the  finger- 
prints of  God  to  prove  Him  guilty  of  inferiority  to 
human  ideas.  It  may  be,  as  one  of  her  men  of 
science  has  expressed  it,  that  England's  destiny  is 
"  to  put  the  final  question  to  the  Universe  with  a 
solid  passionate  determination  to  be  answered." 
But  before  the  Universe  surrenders  to  this  baiHff's 
summons,  England  is  certain  to  be  the  first  of  all 
European  countries,  the  first  of  all  peoples  with  a 
huge  and  complex  civilization,  to  make  the  experi- 
ment of  Socialism — some  form  of  Socialism. 

However  wisely  and  quietly  this  experiment  may 
be  made,  Ireland — which  wiU  be  the  last  of  all 
nations  to  abandon  Conservatism — ^has  a  right  to 
be  excluded  from  it,  just  as  rich  people  have  a  right 
to  make  their  investments  abroad  and  to  spend  their 
winters  in  the  south  of  France.  And  this,  when  all 
is  said  and  done,  is  the  spirit  of  Ireland's  demand 


CONCLUSIONS  326 

for  self-government.  She  desires  neither  to  live  upon 
our  bounty  nor  to  share  the  perils  of  our  legislative 
experiments.  She  claims  her  freedom  to  make  her 
own  destiny. 

I  am  sure  that  Ireland  will  always  be  a  small 
nation,  and  I  hope  that  England  may  continue  to 
be  a  great  nation.  I  am  as  anxious  to  watch  the 
experiment  of  England's  attempt  to  live  without 
relation  to  nature  as  Ireland's  attempt  to  live  with- 
out relation  to  materiahsm.  But,  on  the  whole,  my 
sympathies  are  with  Ireland.  I  think  that  Ireland 
is  Ukely  to  be  happier  than  England.  I  think  her 
experiment  is  more  beautiful  than  England's,  and  I 
think  she  will  find  it  less  difficult  and  troublesome 
to  live  outside  materiahsm  than  England  will  find 
it  easy  to  live  outside  natural  conditions.  And  my 
book,  I  hope,  may  persuade  all  men  in  England  able 
to  look  at  the  Irish  question  without  the  distorting 
frenzy  of  faction,  to  honour  Ireland  for  her  sense 
of  nationahty,  to  reverence  her  for  the  beauty  and 
simplicity  of  her  life,  to  be  interested  in  her  choice 
of  natural  simplicity,  and  to  help  her  with  aU  the 
power  they  possess  to  win  that  relative  and  re- 
stricted freedom,  proposed  by  the  present  measure 
of  Irish  self-government,  without  which  it  is  im- 
possible for  her  to  continue  her  experiment  with 
safety  and  with  self-respect. 


ON  THE   SWEATING  OF  BELFAST 

THE  following  note  appeared  recently  in  the 
Daily  Chronicle,  answering  three  Belfast  corre- 
spondents, Mr.  Garrett  Campbell,  Mr.  Cecil  Pirn, 
and  Mr.  J.  H.  Stirling,  who  resented  some  of  my 
remarks  on  the  linen  industry  : — 

Official  Disclosures 

We  can  assure  Mr.  StirHng  that  we  have  no 
desire  to  "  throw  mud  in  handfuls  at  Belfast." 
Our  contention  is  that  the  conditions  of  labour 
in  the  textile  trades  of  that  city  are  very  far  from 
what  they  ought  to  be,  and  are  in  other  towns  in 
the  United  Kingdom.  And,  further,  we  contend 
that  the  attention  of  the  workers  is  designedly 
distracted  from  all  attempts  at  bettering  their 
conditions  of  labour  by  talk  about  imaginary 
dangers  to  the  unity  of  the  Empire,  and  by  a 
continual  stirring  up  of  the  flames  of  religious 
bigotry. 

As  to  the  condition  of  things  in  the  linen 
trade,  no  doubt  Mr.  StirHng  has  heard  of  the 
report  of  Dr.  BaiHe,  the  Medical  Superintendent 
Officer  of  Health  for  Belfast.    Dr.  Baihe's  soimd- 


ON   THE    SWEATING    OF   BELFAST      327 

ness  on  the  question  of  the  Union  is  beyond  sus- 
picion. He  was  a  Unionist  member  of  the  cor- 
poration, and  only  resigned  this  position  in 
order  to  take  up  the  one  he  now  holds. 

Mr.  Stirling  speaks  of  the  home-workers  of 
Belfast  as  being  "  only  a  minute  percentage  of 
the  whole  industrial  population."  What  does 
Dr.  Baihe  say  on  this  point  ?  He  says  that  there 
are  about  3700  out- workers*  under  inspection, 
but  he  goes  on  to  show  that  this  is  very  far  from 
including  aU  the  out- workers  in  the  town  : 

Some  employers  seek  to  evade  their  re- 
sponsibihty  under  this  section  of  the  Act  by 
ceasing  to  employ  out-workers  for  a  short 
period  at  February  1  and  August  1,  when 
the  lists  are  due.  And  some  attempts  to  fiU 
in  false  or  insufficient  Hsts  were  discovered. 
One  firm  sent  in  a  Hst  having  80  per  cent  of  the 
names  and  addresses  given  incorrectly,  and 
an  agent  sent  in  a  Hst  giving  only  about  25 
per  cent  of  the  workers  known  by  the  in- 
spector to  be  employed  by  her. 

And  what  does  Dr.  Bailie  have  to  say  about 
the  wages  earned  by  these  out-workers  ? 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  no  improvement 
has  been  noted  in  the  rate  of  payment  given 
to  out-workers  in  the  city  .  .  .  which  is  still 

*  '  *  Out- workers  "  is  the  Belfest  term  for  peo|Ae  who  work  in 
their  own  homes — home-workers. 


328      ON   THE   SWEATING   OF   BELFAST 

far  too  low.  In  the  last  week  of  December, 
for  instance,  a  woman  was  observed  em- 
broidering small  dots  on  cushion  covers  ;  there 
were  300  dots  on  each  cushion,  and  for  sewing 
these  by  hand  she  received  the  sum  of  Id.   She 

SAID  THAT  FOR  A  DAY'S  WORK  OF  THIS  KIND 
SHE  WOULD  HAVE  DIFFICULTY  IN  MAKING  6d. 

Nor  is  this  an  exceptional  case.  Quite 
recently  our  inspector  was  shown  handker- 
chiefs which  were  ornamented  by  a  design 
in  dots  ;  these  dots  were  counted,  and  it  was 
found  that  the  workers  had  to  sew  384  dots 
for  a  penny.    Comment  is  needless. 

Badly  Paid  Work 

Among  the  various  kinds  of  badly  paid  work 
noticed  may  be  mentioned: 

Children's  pinafores  (flounced  and  braided), 
4Jd.  per  dozen. 

Women's  chemises,  7Jd.  per  dozen. 

Women's  aprons,  2Jd.  per  dozen. 

Men's  shirts,  lOd.  per  dozen. 

From  these  very  low  rates  of  pay  must  be 
deducted  the  time  spent  in  visiting  the  ware- 
houses for  work,  the  necessary  upkeep  of  the 
worker's  sewing-machine,  and  the  price  of  the 
thread  used  in  sewing,  which  is  almost  in- 
variably provided  by  the  worker.  After  these 
deductions  are  made,  the  amount  left  to  th^ 


ON  THE   SWEATING   OF   BELFAST      329 

workers  is  so  extremely  small  as  to  make  one 
wonder  if  they  are  benefited  by  the  work  at  all. 
Much  the  same  scale  of  pay  is  found  among 
the  workers  at  the  various  processes  of  the 
linen  trade,  these  workers  constituting  the 
larger  proportion  of  the  out- workers  of  Belfast. 
One  penny  per  hour  is  the  ordinary  rate, 
and  in  many  cases  it  falls  below  this. 

Work  among  the  out-workers  of  Belfast 
continues  to  be  complicated  by  the  fact  that 
much  of  the  out-work  done  in  the  city  in  con- 
nection with  the  linen  trade  is  not  included  in 
the  trades  listed  as  notifiable  to  the  local 
authority.  For  this  reason  some  of  the  em- 
ployers do  not  and  cannot  be  compelled  to  send 
in  lists  of  their  out-workers. 

In  face  of  this  statement  by  Dr.  Bailie,  Mr. 
StirHng  can  hardly  be  justified  in  saying  that 
"  Belfast  has  been  raked  with  a  fine  comb  by  the 
Sociahsts  and  NationaUsts  to  find  awful  examples 
of  the  sweaters'  tyranny."  Nor  can  we  follow 
him  when  he  says  that  Sir  Ernest  Hatch,  who 
is  the  chairman  of  the  Committee  appointed  by 
the  Board  of  Trade  to  inquire  into  the  facts 
revealed  by  Dr.  Baihe's  report,  "  has  certainly  no 
bias  in  favour  of  the  employers."  Sir  Ernest 
Hatch  was  for  years  a  Unionist  member  of 
Parliament,  and  Mr.  Stirhng  may  rest  assured 
that  he  will  be  fair  to  everybody. 


330      ON   THE   SWEATING   OF   BELFAST 

Belfast  v.  Oldham 

Mr.  Garrett  Campbell  and  Mr.  Cecil  Pirn  tell  us 
that  the  average  wage  paid  to  able-bodied  men 
in  the  linen  mills  of  Belfast  would  be  well  above 
25s.  a  week.  This  may  or  may  not  be  true,  but 
it  may  be  pointed  out  that  the  number  of  able- 
bodied  men  employed  is  very  few  as  compared 
with  the  total  number  of  workers.  In  the  last 
number  of  the  Labour  Gazette  the  total  earnings 
of  18,309  persons  engaged  in  all  departments  of 
the  linen  industry  in  Belfast  in  the  week  ending 
March  23  last  are  given,  and  they  amount  to 
£11,257,  which  is  12s.  3Jd.  a  head. 

If  we  turn  to  Oldham  we  find  in  the  same 
week  that  14,845  textile  workers  earned  £15,820, 
or  21s.  4d.  per  head.  But  the  workers  in  Oldham 
have  a  strong  trade  union  behind  them,  and  do 
not  bother  their  heads  about  Lord  Londonderry 
and  Sir  Edward  Carson. 

To  the  ordinary  person  it  would  seem  that 
even  if  everything  foretold  came  to  pass  after 
the  Irish  Parliament  meets  in  Dublin,  wages  can 
hardly  go  below  Id.  an  hour  and  find  your  own 
thread  and  sewing-machine.  Nor  is  it  Hkely  that 
even  Mr.  Redmond  will  be  able  to  make  some 
poor  wretched  creature  sew  more  than  384  dots 
on  a  pocket-handkerchief  for  a  penny. 


Date  Due 


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Library  Bureau  Cat.  no.  1137 

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BOSTON  COLLEGE 


3  9031   01646221 


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BOSTON  COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  HEIGHTS 
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